


if the world should break

by transstevebucky



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Outing, Pining, Post-All Out War Arc (Walking Dead), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 18:30:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14243253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transstevebucky/pseuds/transstevebucky
Summary: It's not like Daryl hates the guy. It's exactly the opposite.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> road trip fics are gay culture. you're not really gay if you haven't written one, those are the facts
> 
> warnings: daryl has ptsd and anxiety driven by that; there's two scenes where he vomits because of it, so if it squicks you, skip the part starting with "Daryl pulls over." and ends with "Ain't your fault." for the second mention, stop reading at "He stumbles into the mess" and start back up again at "rapid and familiar". they're both pretty brief mentions and nothing graphic, but just in case.
> 
> on top of that, there's the usual warning with anything to do with walkers; gore, violence, etc.
> 
> apologies to people in johnsonburg. i'm sure it's great! but daryl's a little bit of an asshole
> 
> title from nine inch nail's "we're in this together"

It’s not like Daryl hates the guy.

Jesus is annoying, sure, and so maybe Daryl’s still a little bitter about the truck of food sitting at the bottom of a lake, but past that he’s pretty alright; funny, brave, loyal. Maggie seems to like him, at the very least, and even Rick’s fond of him.

Shit, he held Maggie’s hand when she went into labor while Glenn was two days deep on a run with Tara. 

Daryl can’t _hate him_. Not when he makes it so easy to like him. Hell, he’d even say they’re friends, if he was at gunpoint and pushed to it.

He doesn't hate him. It's the exact opposite. And that's the problem.

“Not him,” he begs, and Maggie rolls her eyes while she sorts through plans for the new garden, “Mags, anyone but him.”

“What the hell has Jesus ever done to you? I thought you were friends, now.”

 _Saved my life. Multiple times. Clothed me. Fed me. Fought with me against the Saviors. Protected my family._ “He’s a goddamn nuisance.”

Brilliant. _Because that’s not vague at all, you fucking idiot._

“A nuisance.” There’s a twitch in Maggie’s jaw, like she’s either two seconds away from knocking him flat or laughing in his face. “Anything else?”

“He’s too,” _pretty_ , “loud.”

Maggie sighs. Tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling of the meeting room. Daryl can almost see her counting back from twenty with the way her eyes roll in her head. “He’s the best we got. You both are. Which is why you’re goin’ with him. Neither of you come back empty-handed, and we’re down low on ‘munitions, food, water, clothes, medicine. We need all the help we can get. We need you. _Both_ of you.”

Daryl focuses all his attention on the stack of papers on the desk, labelling different types of crop and uses for them, ways to grow them. “I can go alone.”

“Alone.” Maggie says, deadpan, and Daryl knows he’s fucked up. “Without anyone backing you up. On a month-long run. Which goes against all the rules Rick, Ezekiel and I drew up for all the communities. Because you think Jesus is too loud.”

Well. It sounds stupid when she says it like that. “...Yeah.”

“No,” she says, final, “you’re going with him. You leave tomorrow morning. Only thing that’s gonna change my mind is if you suddenly drop dead, and even then I ain’t sure.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees, but his gut is churning, “alright. Fine.”

He can cope with a month. That’s nothing. He’s got this.

**__________**

Daryl has not. Got this.

From the second he wakes up to the second he’s loading their supplies into an old delivery truck, Jesus shadows him, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a smile that reaches his ears.

He looks like a frog; big eyes, wide mouth, constantly ready to take off into the air on legs too long for a body that’s shorter than Daryl’s.

“Maggie said you didn’t want to go with me,” Jesus tells him. There’s a glint in his eye that looks too much like knowing, so Daryl busies himself with filling the tank of the truck up and trying not to commit murder before noon. “I swear I’ll behave. I won’t even suck your dick.”

Daryl stares at the hole in the truck, the pipe steadily glug-glug-glugging gas into the engine. Would it kill him if he drank it all? Just downed it like weak liquor? Probably. But Maggie would bring him back to life and slit his throat if he used up their supplies like that; and, anyway, with Daryl’s luck he’d just end up puking his guts up and wasting what little food they have.

So suicide by diesel is a no-go. More’s the pity.

“Here’s the rules,” Daryl says, and Jesus perks up like he’s just said _here’s a list of things you can do,_ “you don’t pull that shit. You don’t listen to country music. You keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. You don’t keep lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?” Jesus asks, eyes wide and head tilted. His mouth is curled into something that’s not-quite a smirk. 

“Like you’re gonna eat me.”

“Well,” Jesus hums, and then mimes zipping up his mouth when Daryl glares at him, “fine. But you have rules, too.”

Jesus fucking Lord. “Shoot.”

Jesus ticks them off on his slender fingers as he goes, “no stretching. No heavy-lifting. No showing off your skills with a weapon. That all turns me on, and that’s unfair in the work environment.”

Daryl slams the gas tank closed.

Jesus grins.

 _This is going to be a fucking nightmare_.

**__________**

A list of things Daryl’s learned about Jesus since meeting him, not necessarily in chronological order:

He’s strong.

He’s compassionate.

He’s loyal.

He’s lonely, for all the people he spends his time with.

He’s talented at pretty much anything he puts his mind to.

He’s a good shot, has amazing aim, and doesn’t need a weapon to kill someone.

He has bitching hair.

He is the worst human being alive and Daryl is going to rip his own lungs out before the month is up.

So. The run is going great, so far.

**__________**

“What’s your deal, anyway?” 

Jesus glances at him, fingers smudged with polish, knives set up on his crossed legs. “What do you mean?”

“What’s your problem,” Daryl expands, but he’s already regretting opening his mouth, “why d’you fuck with me like that?”

Jesus looks genuinely confused. He tucks a freshly cleaned and sharpened blade into one of his holsters and turns more fully to look Daryl in the face. “How do I fuck with you?”

“Like,” Daryl says, and swallows back all the things he wants to say, like _like I’m worth something, like I’m a sight for sore eyes,_ “you like me. In. That way.”

Jesus cocks his head. Cocker spaniel looking fuck. “You mean romantically?”

Daryl coughs. Takes a turn onto a dirt road that cuts past the highway still clogged with the dead after all this time. “Sure.”

“I don’t,” Jesus says, which is obvious. Obviously he doesn’t like Daryl romantically. He _knew that._ It makes Daryl feel nauseous to think about anyway. “I don’t think you realise how good of a person you are.”

 _Twenty one days_ , he tells himself, _twenty one days and you can go back home and hunt._

“Fuck off.”

Jesus sighs. “Are you-. I mean, look. Okay. If you don’t want me to flirt with you, that’s fine. If you don’t want me to be attracted to you, that’s okay, too. It’ll be rough, but I’ll get past it. I’ve liked straight guys before. But I need to know what you’re saying. Otherwise this is going to be hell for both of us.”

Daryl glares at the road that isn’t a road in front of them. “Ain’t.”

“Huh?”

“Ain’t,” Daryl says, and feels the words in his throat, clawing like the dead at the tender flesh, “ain’t straight.”

Jesus blinks. Blinks again. “Oh.”

“Hm.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“Shut up.”

“So you’re. What? Bi?” 

Jesus looks more alive, now, like Daryl’s just said something interesting, like he’s just said something _important_.

Maybe it is. The only person he properly came out to was Beth, that night they drank too much moonshine and Daryl got mean. Carol knows. Rick, too, since they’ve fucked. Maybe Michonne. Maggie might. Tara, Aaron, Eric. Denise.

Most of his family _knows_ , but he’s never explicitly told anyone except for Beth.

“Gay,” the air of the truck’s cab suddenly feels stifling, like his lungs can’t expand enough to bring in enough air, “‘m gay.”

“I,” Jesus says, shakes his head, “thank you for telling me. I’m sorry for assuming.”

Daryl pulls over. Unbuckles his seatbelt. Tugs open the door. Doesn’t answer the questions Jesus is calling behind him, panicked.

He vomits into a bundle of wildflowers, knees going weak, hand braced against a tree.

_You’re gonna miss me so bad when I’m gone, Daryl Dixon._

The stink of rot and bile is the only thing in his nose. But the taste of ash sits on the back of his tongue. 

_We should burn it down._

“Oh, shit,” Jesus says, and Daryl shakes and shivers and wipes spit from his mouth with the back of his hand, “shit, Daryl, I’m sorry, I didn’t-. I didn’t mean to force you out, that’s not what that was, I swear.”

“I know,” Daryl tells him, presses his forehead to the bark of the tree. 

_So, did you ever have a girlfriend?_

_Nah. Boyfriends._

_Oh. Oh, well, did you lose them?_

_Yeah._

_Did you love them?_

_I-. Yeah. I did, kid, I did._

_I’m sorry._

_Nothing to apologise for._

“Really,” Jesus insists, “I know what it’s like, you don’t have to say it’s fine when it isn’t.”

“It ain’t that,” Daryl sighs, and reaches behind him for the bottle in his vest. Jesus tugs it free and places it into his palm. He takes three deep swallows before he swirls it around his mouth out and spits it onto the vomit-coated flowers. “Ain’t your fault. Not like-. Not like you think. Not in the closet. Just. Somethin’ else.”

“Okay,” Jesus says, and his face is stricken when Daryl turns back to face him, “I’m sorry, anyway.”

“It’s fine.”

“Alright. You want me to drive?”

Daryl considers it. Nods.

It’s silent for a few minutes, before, “are you-. Okay?”

Daryl wants to say _since when specifically_ , but for all Daryl’s sort of long-term irritated at Jesus he’s aware the guy’s caring enough that he’ll be genuinely worried. “Sure.”

Jesus looks at him like he knows for a fact it’s a lie, but then just rolls his shoulders and keeps driving, truck bouncing and sending his long hair into the air. “You want to play a game? Since you’re stuck with me, and all.”

Daryl sighs. “What game?”

“Twenty-one questions.”

Daryl thinks about a cramped cabin and moonshine and Beth with her arms wrapped around him, her soft voice telling him she thinks she might be gay, too, and she never got to tell her pa. 

His whole family knows his secrets; letting Jesus in on them isn’t a bad thing. And it doesn’t mean anything. Not a single thing.

“Shoot.”

“Oh! Really?”

“Do you wanna?”

Jesus looks at him for a split-second, eyes wide, pink mouth dropped open. Daryl’s chest stumbles. “Obviously. Okay. When did you know you were gay?”

 _Blue eyes, bow legs, walker blood. Curls cut short._ “Figured it out when I was a kid. Never did nothin’ about it, not ‘til the world went to shit.”

There’s no pity in Jesus’s voice, just understanding. “Fair enough. Your turn.” 

“First time you went with a guy?”

“Shit. Uh, I was about fifteen, I think? This guy called Tommy, he was one of the neighbor kids from across the street. We fucked in the back of his dad’s truck. Lasted about two minutes. You?”

“Can’t ask the same question twice,” Daryl snorts, and Jesus grins, shrugs. “Rick.”

The car swerves. “ _Rick_? Our Rick? Fearless leader Rick?”

Daryl shifts in his seat. There’s anger, self-loathing, right at the hollow of his throat, but he holds it back. He let it spill over with Beth, and it wasn’t good, wasn’t fair to either of them. “Yeah. The winter after the farm fell, he and his wife, Lori, they were goin’ through a rough patch. We were on the run all the time, never safe. Anyway, we fucked a few times that winter. Stopped when we got to the prison, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Daryl sighs. Gnaws at his bottom lip. “Hand jobs, blow jobs, shit like that. Nothing proper. It wasn’t long before she died -Lori, I mean, having Little Asskicker. He lost it for a while. After that there was one last time we fucked for real. ‘Bout a week before the place fell to pieces. Still couldn’t walk right.”

Jesus whistles, taps his fingers against the thick leather of the steering wheel. His hands are clean, wiped clean of grime and dirt, fingernails perfectly round.

Daryl’s hands are calloused and covered in scars, dirt caked in deep to his fingernails. It makes him feel weirdly self-conscious, so he crosses his hands under his armpits and sighs.

“There was this guy at Hilltop,” Jesus says, and Daryl blinks, because he wasn’t sharing for stories back, “don’t look at me like that. It’s only fair. Anyway, there was this guy. I’d just gotten in from outside, so I wasn’t at my most stable. We had a fling for a few months. Or, I thought it was a fling. He told me he fell in love with me, and I broke it off. A week later, he went out on a run. Got bit. Died. It fucked me up, for a while, like it was my fault. But it wasn’t. It’s just what happens.”

“What was his name?”

It’s the right question. Jesus smiles with one side of his mouth. “Jesse. He was a good guy. Good looking. _Great_ in bed.”

Daryl smiles back. “Weren’t your fault. You know that now, right?”

“Yeah,” Jesus says, eyes blinking slow before he turns back to the road with razor-sharp focus, “yeah, I do.”

**__________**

“Have you ever got high?”

“Smoked pot a lot with Merle. Anything stronger than that was his thing.”

“Merle was your brother?”

“Yeah. He’s dead; got killed and left to turn. Doing the best thing he ever did. You got any siblings?”

“Did. Right at the start, a little sister. Larissa. She was a spitfire, even though she was sick. It was-. It wasn’t the dead that got her. She had a heart defect. All the running, it took her downhill fast. She wasn’t blood; I got adopted when I was sixteen. But she was young and she was sweet and I loved her. Still do.”

“I’m sorry, man. What was your favorite thing about her?”

“Just. She loved music. She always had some playing, Disney or random pop or rap, anything she liked the sound of. What about you? Favorite thing about your brother?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t have a lot of good qualities. He was loyal, I guess. To me.”

“Yeah. What did you do, before?”

“Whole lot of nothing. Followed Merle around. Odd jobs, mechanic shit. Nothing serious. How’d the Jesus nickname get started?”

“That was Larissa, actually. My beard grew out properly when she was about eight, and she started calling me by it. Everyone did, after that.”

“That’s not fair. Can’t take the piss outta you now.”

“I’m sure that’s one of the worst things you’ve suffered, Daryl.”

“You have no idea.”

**__________**

Johnsonburg is… Not terrible, on the walker front.

It’s not huge, which probably contributes, but it’s almost creepily silent, and there’s barely any cars left at all. People either packed and left the second things went to shit, or the Saviors got this far out and scavenged everything they could.

It seems unlikely, though. From what Daryl had gleaned over his stay in the Sanctuary, the Saviors stuck to their area, squeezing the life out of all the communities they could.

“I can’t believe it’s only midday.” 

Daryl snorts. Jesus pouts at him, wide eyes making him look like a hugely oversized, bearded toddler. With _great_ hair. “You’re spoiled, man. Used to have eighteen-hour days at the prison. Got up at four in the morning, went to bed at ten at night.”

Jesus stretches with a groan, bends over double. His coat stretches with the movement, pushing the lines of his muscles into deep relief.

Daryl’s throat burns.

“The fact you’re alive after that is a fucking miracle,” Jesus tells him, “remember lie-ins?”

“Ain’t you the one who sleeps ‘til nine if he can get away with it? The hell you call that?”

“A fucking disgrace, Daryl. Before the turn, you know when I got up? Midday. Nine isn’t a lie-in. It’s an atrocity. The evils of this new world just keep giving.”

“I’m gonna kill you before this month is up.”

Jesus laughs, soft and sweet. “I suppose I’ve always been a night owl, to be fair. Used to stay up until dawn reading.”

“This is why gays are oppressed, Rovia.”

Jesus outright cackles at that, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. It makes Daryl’s entire being shatter out of existence.

He takes it back. _This_ is why gays are oppressed.

Fucking Jesus and his good hair and nice laugh and nice _smile_ and pretty _eyes._ God. This is hell.

“Okay. Ten minutes to eat, then we start up?”

“Sure.”

They tug the ladder down from the roof of the truck and clamber up to keep watch while they eat and take stock of everything.

The houses are all pretty run-down, but Daryl has a feeling that isn’t from post-modern neglect as much as it’s just fallen further into disrepair since the dead got up and started walking. The way up here was hell, too, potholes and smeared walker guts. Jesus had tried to make a game out of it; five minutes of harsh road equals a shot of water.

Daryl had stopped him before they accidentally drowned themselves.

After a while of scanning the horizon, methodically making his way through some of Hilltop’s own protein bars that taste like literal shit, he turns back to Jesus.

He’s stretched out, jacket down on the sun-warm metal of the truck. Legs crossed over themselves in the air as he eats, cheeks bulging. There’s crumbs smeared all over his chin, because their very own son of the Lord can’t eat anything without turning into an uncharacteristic mess.

“Stop staring at me,” Jesus whines, but there’s a smirk tugging at his mouth anyway.

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Just wonderin’ how you make that much of a mess out of something that tastes like rubber.”

“I’m a man of many skills, Daryl. Don’t put me down because I refuse to lick my fingers as seductively as you.”

“Fuck off,” Daryl sighs, but his stomach twitches. “Where we gonna start, anyway?”

“Uh,” Jesus flips over, shoves the rest of the protein bar in his mouth, tears a list out of his coat pocket. It’s neatly folded into a squashed paper crane. “Maggie made a list of places to go through. We really desperately need new medicine; aspirin, antibiotics, morphine if we can find it. There’s a CVS near here we can try out for that. Ammo, but I don’t know if there’s anywhere for that, we might get lucky going through houses. Clothes, there’s a dollar store a few minutes away.”

“Saw a paper-making plant on the way in. Could be water there. Don’t know if it’ll be purified or anythin’, but it might be worth a look.”

“Good thinking. Alright. Meds first?”

“Meds first.”

**__________**

The glass on the front of the CVS is smashed in, but from Daryl’s view there’s no walkers inside. The whole town is empty, and Daryl knows he should be glad for it, but it’s getting his hackles up.

It’s the PTSD, or at least that’s what Aaron keeps telling him. _You know why you always feel anxious, Daryl? Because you’ve never once lived without a threat. That’s why you’re alive, now. And it’s not healthy. You need breaks_.

They smack against the metal of the door a few times to try and draw any dead out, wait with their backs against the brick.

The only cars in the lot are shells; rusted, wheels pulled off, tanks dried out. 

Not that the gas would be any good after all this time if there was any left, but.

“You think that’s enough time?” Jesus asks, seconds before a dead hand tries to drag him backwards. “Or not. Whatever. For fucking shit.”

Daryl takes the walker out with a snort. “Patience is a virtue, young padawan.”

Jesus glares at him.

Apparently there was only one walker in the place, because when they go around there’s nothing but tipped over shelves and spilled produce on the ground. 

Daryl starts lifting up a shelf to get to the fallen stuff, and finds a fuck-ton of lube. Metric measurement.

“Apparently that isn’t such a high-priority find in the apocalypse,” Jesus says, and snags a couple, shoves them into his pockets, “that’s a win. I love Johnsonburg.”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Get a basket and start loading shit up.”

“Yessir,” Jesus snaps out, hand reaching up and out in a solid salute. 

Daryl starts sorting through the lube to see if there’s anything else, and is rewarded by cheap pregnancy tests. Feels a little redundant, stacking it next to a still-standing shelf of home-enema kits and lube, but he’s not gonna judge. 

By the time he’s stashed the pregnancy tests into his bag, Jesus has already come back with a rattling trolley, hair tied up into a knot on top of his head.

Daryl’s seen him like this before, when they were working in Hilltop, when Jesus spent a month solid helping to lay foundations for a new home in Alexandria, in the war when he was laying out explosives for the Saviors. It feels new and gut-churningly beautiful now, when they’re alone and are going to be that way for nearly a month.

This is only the fucking _beginning_. He should never let Maggie use logic against him. It only ever fucks him over.

“Anything exciting?”

“Pregnancy tests. Grabbed more lube -stop smiling, creep. Condoms. Figure even if they’re out of date it’s still better than nothing. Any walkers gatherin’ outside?”

“Still clear. Sort of weird. I’m so used to them following me wherever I go it feels kind of… Lonely when they aren’t here. Is that strange?”

“Nah, I get it,” Daryl uses a shelf to haul himself to his feet, starts working around to where the painkillers are. The shelves are mostly intact -people did leave in a hurry, then, which makes sense given the lack of cars. “Like the worst pets ever.”

“Right? I almost prefer the threat. Makes things fresh and exciting.”

Daryl stares at him over a packet of store-brand ibuprofen. “Didn’t say that.”

“And here I thought we were bonding.”

“You wish.”

Jesus smiles and starts rooting around the feminine hygiene section. “Do tampons expire?”

“Yeah. Get the expensive brand-shit, though. Pads are fine cheap, but you don’t wanna get cheap tampons, ‘specially after so long.”

Jesus obeys, but then pauses. “How do you know all this?”

“Carol and Maggie, back at the prison, they talked about it,” Daryl says, “figured it was worth knowin’, since I used to go on a lot of runs.”

“That’s,” Jesus says, a crooked smile on his face, “that’s really fucking sweet, Daryl.”

“Shut up,” Daryl tells him, “it’s goddamn hygiene. You gonna tell me you don’t constantly bring back soap by request?”

Jesus shrugs. “That’s about smelling good and being clean. Getting the right stuff for that is way more important. And you made a point of learning.”

“S’polite,” Daryl mutters, and Jesus lets out a peal of laughter that’s stifled by his fist as soon as Daryl glares at him.

“I take back cute,” Jesus grins, “you’re fucking _incredible_.”

“I’ll leave you on your own.”

Daryl shoves a whole shelf full of ibuprofen into his bag, some pills specifying help for cramps, some for settling stomachs. Jesus starts packing up boxes of brand-name tampons, gentle like anyone will care if they’re crushed. 

_He’s a good guy_ , a traitorous voice tells him, sing-song and lilting. 

Daryl stuffs a handful of heat packs into the bag in an attempt to shut his brain up.

“You know,” Jesus says, slow, which is something Daryl’s brain responds to by blaring sirens in his head and screaming GET OUT NOW!, “you never said it was for women. When you talked about the pads.”

Daryl shrugs. “Not just women that get periods, man. An’ not all women have them, either.”

Jesus smiles. It starts slow, just a twitch at the very corners of his mouth, and then spreads until even his eyes are lighter in the dark store. “I don’t know how I could have assumed you were straight, you know. You’re way too nice.”

“Ain’t nice,” _do they need muscle relaxants? Probably._ “Been talking with Enid a lot. They’re nonbinary. Just don’t wanna be like my brother, y’know?”

Jesus looks a little floored. “I never met him, Daryl, but I don’t think for a moment you could be like Merle.”

Daryl smiles into the bag of goods and moves on. “Yeah. Whatever, prick.”

**__________**

By the time they’ve cleared out the storage in the back of the store (brains dried and splattered like wallpaper, one very dead pharmacist tucked in the corner), the truck’s already a quarter way full.

“I think Maggie overestimated how long we’d take,” Jesus says, hands on his hips. There’s sweat around the wispy hairs at the nape of his neck. Daryl wants to taste it.

“I think even if it came back full after three days she’d send us back out,” Daryl tells him. “Think she’s getting annoyed that I’m teachin’ the baby how to curse.”

“You’re teaching the baby how to curse?”

“Is anything funnier than a six month old saying ‘fuck’, I ask of you.”

Jesus grins. “Alright, that’s a fair point. But you’re right. Guess we still have work to do. Suppose we could always try and find another truck if we find stuff and can’t fit it in. Drive back separately.”

“You think that’s a good idea? Given your driving abilities?”

“I stole your van the very first time we met.”

“It was swerving. Thought you were gonna tip it over and we’d have to put you down.”

“Which would be a shame, since I’m ever so pretty.”

“You’re ever such a fuckass hippie bitch, but sure, we’ll go with that.”

“You’re a man of such beautiful words, Daryl,” Jesus tells him, slides the back door of the truck closed, “so succinct, yet full of life. Like a poet.”

“I’ll slam your head in that door, God help me.”

“I don’t think my father would approve.”

Daryl looks around. At the crumbling houses, the forests close by, the CVS they’ve just robbed blind. “Sorry, I’m jus’ tryna find a place where that joke is funny.”

“Ha. Ha. So. Where to next? We could grab some clothes from that dollar store?”

“Nah,” Daryl sighs. Slings his crossbow in ahead of him before climbing up into the cab of the truck. “Got nearly a month to get everything. S’getting late, anyway, ain’t gonna see shit in them stores when it’s dark. Figure we might as well hole up in that fire station we passed. Place to park the truck, keep it safe, block ourselves in for the night.”

“It’s only,” Jesus glances at the clock on the dash, “six thirty. We still have time. We could scout through a couple houses first?”

Daryl considers the pro’s and con’s. With all their wins, today, and the general silence of the entire town, going through a few houses shouldn’t be a big deal. They’ve got flashlights, even found a solar light in the backroom of the CVS, so if they need to they can use that.

“Fine. Three hours max. But we go together.”

“Everything works better with two, Daryl,” Jesus says, and then winks.

Daryl sighs. “Including your arms. Better make sure I don’t slip and break one of them in your prime.”

“Is that a threat? It’s sort of sexy.”

“You find abuse sexy? That what gets you off? The idea of someone being hurt against their will?”

Jesus freezes. Deer-in-headlights, eyes wide and stance stock-still, hands at his sides. “Uh. Uhh.”

Daryl grins. “Fuckin’ around, man. Seen the way you stepped in against that fuckwad husband at Hilltop a few weeks ago.”

The guy who gave Daryl a panic attack just by raising his voice too loud. The one who beat his wife and nephew. The one Daryl was tempted to kill brutally.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jesus whispers, “I thought I was going to die. In fucking Johnsonburg.”

“I wouldn’t kill you here. I’d kill you in the woods.”

“Oh, well. That’s so soothing, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Jesus starts the car.

**__________**

“Hey, Daryl?”

“Yeah?”

“Do we have a need for novelty sleep masks?”

“Depends. What’s it say?”

“Uh. ‘Big Daddy’, ‘Fuck Off’, ‘Sex Slave’, and one is just the shape of a dick.”

“Oh, definitely. Need the dick one. How else’re we gonna be able to tell when it’s you coming back through the gates?”

“Hey, Daryl? I hate you.”

“Hate you, too.”

**__________**

Daryl’s on first watch when Jesus climbs on top of the truck with him. 

He’s shivering, teeth chattering in his head like they’re about to fall out and scatter across the ground, so Daryl holds out the end of his newly-found blanket and Jesus wraps it around his own shoulders with a nod of thanks.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admits, “too cold.”

“S’like 60 degrees.”

“Yeah, well, if we snuggled naked like I recommended, maybe I wouldn’t be succumbing to hypothermia.”

“Oh, is that what this is?”

“You don’t know it isn’t,” Jesus sniffs, burying his nose in the blanket. He looks a little warmer, now, but he’s still trembling.

Daryl moves closer with a sigh. “This help?”

“Yes,” Jesus admits, “although you know what would help more?”

“I’m not gonna get naked with you.”

“Worth a shot.”

Daryl watches over the quiet street for a while, eyes long-since adjusted to the dark. Occasionally, a walker ambles past, but they haven’t noticed either of them yet, so there’s no real need to kill them. A herd isn’t going to form any time soon, not when Johnsonburg was dead long before they came.

“You can go sleep,” Daryl tells him, “if you need to. I got this.”

“I know.” A pause, then, “I. Uh. Have nightmares. I know everyone does, and it’s not a big deal, but I just-. Sort of don’t want to deal with them yet.”

“Still a big deal,” Daryl says, and Jesus shrugs, “even if everyone else is dealing with it. Just ‘cause there’s a war on doesn’t mean the singular soldiers aren’t dying on the front. ‘Sides, I’ve had nightmares since I was a kid, so I can’t make fun of you for it.”

“Yeah? What about?”

Daryl knows what this is. Knows that Jesus is just trying to distract himself from the anxiety, so he opens up, even though a part of him doesn’t want to. Is scared about Jesus’s reaction. “My pa. His belt. Him comin’ back to life. Walkers. Any of us dying. Had a dream about Carl getting bit and threw up twice before I could convince myself it was fine.”

“Yeah,” Jesus whispers, “I’ve always had them, too. When I went into the system, I was about seven. I was in homes for a while with other kids, and then in a foster home with an abusive mom. She used to sit outside our rooms with knives and threaten to kill us in our sleep. Never actually hit me, but that’s when I started learning martial arts.”

“You ever think of teaching anyone else? Y’know, now?”

“I used to be a teacher,” Jesus tells him, tone vaguely embarrassed, “on the weekends, just teaching self-defence at women’s shelters and things. But I don’t know how much it would help teaching people, now.”

“Saved that woman’s life,” Daryl reminds him, “from her husband. Saw what you did to him. She’s better now, ‘cause’a you. Maybe if people learned about it you could take a break, sometimes, from bein’ on the move.”

“Like you can talk.” Jesus takes a breath. “I don’t know. Knife throwing, weaponry, that’s stuff you have to learn. Martial arts feels… Less, now.”

“Seen you kick a walker’s head clean off. Bullshit is it less. An’... It looks cool. I guess.”

“You guess?”

“If someone made me say it. I suppose. At gunpoint, no way out, _maybe_ it looks badass.”

“High praise.” Jesus laughs. “Are you giving me a pep-talk?”

“Don’t do that shit. This is manly-man’s crap, ‘s what it is.”

“You have a deeply not-heterosexual attitude about feelings.”

“Deeply not-heterosexual everything. But, uh. I read this book. Before the war, and everything, before we even got to Alexandria. ‘Bout recovering from childhood abuse. Had therapy once or twice before the turn. Talked to Denise a few times. And it’s important to talk about it, apparently. Felt like a lie, at first, but… It does get easier. Once it’s not in your head all the time. Sometimes you need someone to take you out of your head for a while.”

“Trauma is gay culture,” Jesus says, and Daryl snorts, nudges his shoulder. “But. Thank you, Daryl.”

“And, anyway, figure if you have a mental break before we get back I’m gonna have to pull even more weight than I already am. My shoulders are getting tired from taking your slack.”

“Aaand you ruined it.”

Daryl smiles. Jesus smiles back.

It’s not long after that Jesus slumps a little further down, head resting on Daryl’s shoulder. It’s a heavy weight, breath moving through the layers of Daryl’s thick leather overcoat. But it’s nice. Something solid and real.

Daryl slowly lowers Jesus’s head down to settle on one of his thighs, so he can lay a blanket over him more effectively. Jesus’s nose tucks in against Daryl’s thigh, and it takes him a minute to get his breath back to normal.

“Goodnight, idiot.”

“Goodnight, fuckface.”

**__________**

“What time is it?”

“Seven.”

“Ugh. I’m going to blow my brains out.”

Daryl laughs. “Got a few more places to search through, today. Figure we go to that dollar store and see if we can find any canned shit.”

“You’d eat canned shit?”

“Eating _uncanned_ shit is just nasty.”

Jesus snorts around his bottle of water. Despite everything, he somehow still looks put together. After a night slumped over Daryl’s lap (gently pushed away when the sun’s first rays shone over the horizon), his hair is back into its top-knot, and his clothes aren’t wrinkled. Daryl would look around for an iron if he didn’t pack most of the stuff himself and know for a fact there isn’t one here.

“Had a look through one of those Yellow Pages we found yesterday while you were asleep. There’s an army surplus not far from here. We could go there to check for supplies. Might be stuff left over people didn’t think to take.”

Jesus swallows down half an apple in one heavy gulp. Licks the juice off his fingers. Nearly gives Daryl an aneurysm.

Daryl really just… Loves mornings. Truly. Fantastic.

“So, what’s the order? Surplus then the dollar store?”

“Feels like a good idea. Don’t like only having a couple guns around. Know it’s quiet right now, but if a herd comes, a revolver ain’t gonna do the job like an assault rifle will.”

“Same. Are you driving? I’m not up to it yet.”

“I’ve been up all night. You drive.”

Jesus pouts. “But I might crash with my terrible, no-good driving.”

“It’ll be fucking embarrassin’ to go out like that. Fine. I’ll drive on the way there, you drive the rest of the day. An’ we’re breaking by midday, ‘cause I’m fucking exhausted and I might kill you if I don’t sleep.”

“The romance never dies.”

“What has not yet been born cannot die,” Daryl says, in as good an impression of Ezekiel as he can.

Judging by the way Jesus laughs until he cries, it isn’t good.

**__________**

“Weirdest walker?”

Daryl taps his crossbow against the window again. There’s a crowd of thirty walkers, so far, which isn’t so bad, as long as they can funnel them out. The luck from yesterday’s run out, but then Daryl’s not used to luck anyway.

“Saw one wearing fishnets and a Judge’s wig and nothing else, once. You?”

“Mine’s nothing compared to yours.” Daryl gives him a look, and Jesus sighs. Wipes his knife on his jeans to make sure any non-existent dust is cleared away. “A mermaid costume. With a sex mask on. One of those leather ones.”

“D’you reckon they were dating? Fishnets and Kinkster?”

“I don’t know. Where did you see that one?”

The last walker finally smashes into the rest of them. It’s ugly as sin, and not nearly as funny as Jesus’s story.

“Georgia. Near the beginning, actually.”

“Aw. No, I saw mine two months into Hilltop.”

“Shame,” Daryl says, “love doesn’t ever fucking last.”

Jesus snorts. “Are you ready?”

They let the walkers out one by one. They’re all long-dead. Skin falling off like dandruff, faces almost melted-looking. Some of them are dressed in camo, and Jesus laughs about it. Makes a joke about not being able to see them. Daryl’s tempted to stab him just for that, but he doesn’t. There’s a crowd of thirty five walkers lain out on the tarmac by the time they’re done, and Jesus is smeared with walker blood and sweating. Daryl probably looks even worse, since one of them was a fucking monster of a thing and managed to tackle him before Jesus stabbed it dead.

The surplus is a mess. Covered in blood, stinking of rot, a lot of the shit either stolen or laying broken on the ground.

“We need more ammo than weapons. You take left, I take right?”

“Sure.” Daryl steps over a skeleton picked clean and moves on.

It’s ridiculously dark. He can hardly see anything even with the flashlight strapped to the crossbow, so he has to work through the rows twice to catch everything. 

Bolts, arrows, bows. Old rifles. A massive stash of ammo. 

“How’re you doing?” Jesus calls from the other end. His voice sounds too loud in the space they’re in, like it fills the entire thing. 

“Ammo galore. You?”

“Found some new work boots. Seven pairs. A few sets of hunting knives. Wrist straps. Wonder why they left it all?”

“Dead musta come in early. Maybe they didn’t wanna risk that many.”

“Lucky for us.”

“Lucky for us.”

They circle back around to each other a half hour later, Jesus with a stack of crates and Daryl with three bags wrapped around his body. It’s a good haul. The entire thing so far has been. It’s creepy as shit.

“This feels too easy,” Jesus says, when they’re stacking the crates into the back of the truck, rearranging everything so it fits better, “this is the first town we’ve been to, and this is what we get?”

“I know,” Daryl responds. Watches a line of sweat make its slow way down Jesus’s jaw. Swallows hard and keeps sorting. “Maybe we should fill up ‘s much as we can here an’ make our way back slower. Work through towns back towards Hilltop. Instead of goin’ farther afield.”

“That’s a good plan.” Jesus rolls his shoulders, cracks his knuckles. “We haven’t really got enough gas to keep going farther than this and have enough to get back, anyway.”

They slide the door closed, and Jesus pulls his hair down in a haze of golden-tinted strands. Daryl’s chest constricts.

“What’s the plan? Johnsonburg, clear out everything we can, start back up at... “ Jesus unfolds a map over the solid ground. “Kersey?”

“Sounds good. How many places can we hit on the way back?”

Jesus counts them off in scratch marks in the very top corner of the map. “Over forty near the route we took. We can narrow it down, though. How many days have we got left?”

“Uh,” Daryl does the math, “nineteen, give or take. Don’t have to get back in three weeks exactly. Think she was roundin’ up. Don’t think any of us expected fuckin’ Johnsonburg to be packed full’a shit.”

“Yeah,” Jesus sighs. Rubs a hand over his jaw. “Right. Well, we should find a place to settle in for the day. I can’t deal with much more searching right now. I’ll take watch while you sleep.”

“Could just sleep in the truck, man.”

“You keep twisting your back,” Jesus frowns, “you fucked it up when you fell asleep in the truck yesterday. No, we’re going to find a house and sleep there.”

Daryl rolls his eyes. His chest warms and burns like a dying sun, and he digs his nails into his palms to calm it down. 

“God. Fine. You’re driving.”

“Aye, aye.”

**__________**

“This is your version of a safe house?”

It’s not terrible, not by Daryl’s continuously low standards, and he’s slept in worse places, but.

It’s ridiculously small, practically a shed; living room with barely enough room to stretch your arms out completely. Kitchen with cupboards wide open and bare as the day he was born. The bathroom doesn’t bear thinking about, and the one bedroom is a disaster-zone if ever he’s seen one.

“It’s got a flat roof. Easier for watch. Also, fuck you.”

Jesus rummages around in one of the bags he dragged from the back of the truck and flings a sleeping bag at him. “Now. Go to sleep, you’re not you when you’re sleep deprived.”

“This ain’t nothing compared to the Sanctuary,” Daryl snorts, and Jesus goes still for a moment before continuing in his search for -something. “Kept me awake with some song for god-knows how long. Fed me dog food.”

Jesus’s face does something weird, like he’s just eaten something sour. “Dog food? They fed you _dog_ food?”

“Enough to keep me going. Something to humiliate me.” He doesn’t talk about the retching after, the stink of the cell, the spots in his vision from hunger and sleep deprivation. 

Jesus’s hands tighten on his bag before he passes over a little box of cupcakes. “Here. Eat these before you sleep.”

“Already ate today,” Daryl tells him, but takes three anyway. He leaves the other three for Jesus and spreads out on the garish sleeping bag.

“Alright. If anything happens, shout for me. I’ve got one of the rifles and a silencer, so I should be able to take down any threats if there are any coming, but if anything comes up in my blind spot…”

“I’ll let you know. Promise.” He sticks out his pinky finger.

Jesus smiles and takes it. “A deal has been made.”

“Yeah, fuck off.”

He curls up on his side on the sleeping bag, hands under his head. Thinks about small hands and pretty smiles and strong thighs. The blush doesn’t leave.

**__________**

_It’s a meadow. Beautiful, filled with flowers, blossoms reaching to the sky like a hand stretched for assistance._

_Jesus smiles at him across the grass, setting up a picnic basket, hair tied back. There are more flowers in his hair, his beard, tucked and tied and wound into him until he looks like a fairy nymph. “It’s nice out here. C’mon.”_

_“Yeah,” Daryl says, swallows, moves closer and brushes a hand over Jesus’s shoulder and shudders when he moves back into the touch instead of away. “What you pack?”_

_Jesus turns his face up. His eyes, once blue and striking, a mirror of the sky, are white and lifeless, and his hand reaches out to grab for him, skin peeling away to reveal bone. “Daryl,” he groans, voice gurgling and bubbling in his throat, like his blood has turned to tarmac inside him._

_“No,” Daryl whispers, jerks back, stares as Jesus crawls towards him on broken wrists, eyes rolling and mouth soaked with blood. His leg aches, burns, itches, and it takes him a moment to realise the blood around Jesus’s mouth is his own. “Oh, no, fuck, please don’t do this. Don’t make me do this. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to look away, this is all my fault. Please.”_

_Jesus’s jaw unhinges like a snake to tear into Daryl’s thigh, teeth stained with blood and gristle in his gums. Daryl doesn’t even scream. Can’t. Watches himself get eaten and knows this is the end for him, because even like this he can’t bear to put him down._

_“Hungry,” Jesus tells him, and starts in on his stomach._

_“Take it,” Daryl says, coughing around a mouthful of blood, “just kill me.”_

**__________**

He startles awake when Jesus’s undead counterpart bites into his mouth and rips out his tongue in a sick imitation of a kiss.

He doesn’t wake with a scream; knows even in his worst moments that’s a bad idea. He holds back with a sob into his hand, chest shaking.

It’s fine. Jesus isn’t dead. He isn’t bit. He’s stubborn enough to not fucking die, ever. He’s keeping watch out of sight of the dead. He isn’t a walker.

He stumbles into the mess of the bathroom to vomit spectacularly into the sink, and when he’s done there’s the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, rapid and familiar.

“Daryl? Are you okay?”

Daryl gives him a blank stare. “Fine.”

“Stupid question. Sorry. Are you sick? Do you need medicine? I think we might have something for settling stomachs.” He looks frantic, eyes wide and scared, like Daryl’s scaring him.

“Bad dream,” Daryl tells him, and before he can stop himself, leans closer into Jesus’s space and starts checking him over. No marks on the leather coat. No rips in his pants. Face free of blood. _Okay. He’s okay, he’s fine._ “You died. You, uh. Came back. Ripped me apart.”

Jesus’s face crumples. “That made you ill? Me, dying? Why didn’t you just kill me? In the dream, I mean.”

Daryl’s hands clench. “Not. Couldn’t. Not… Couldn’t kill you. Not _right_. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

It sounds stupid, now. The dream was nothing worse than anything he’s had before. No worse than dreams he’s had about Rick or Michonne or Carl, Maggie or Glenn or baby Hershel. Carol. He’d had to put them down, too, which was always the worst part.

_You’re not in love with them. You don’t want them like you want him._

“You don’t have to apologise,” Jesus says, voice soft, biting his soft bottom lip, “you don’t. I don’t know if I could, if it was you. Do you… want to go back to sleep?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“Okay. Want to get moving? That dollar store probably still has some canned stuff that hasn’t expired.”

“Yeah,” _anything to get away from here, please,_ “yeah, I guess so.”

**__________**

The dollar store does have a lot of shit, but it’s mostly stuff like lima beans (which everyone hates), tinned meat, cans of fruit cocktails. They grab them all, anyway.

“I always forget how gross rotten food smells,” Jesus says, bandana over his mouth. Daryl can’t see how sucking his own breath in is a good idea; he’s smelled it, and it’s actually worse than Daryl’s own. “What with the walkers and everything.”

“It’s fuckin’ ripe,” Daryl agrees. He stares at a couple of the moth-eaten baby clothes before he puts them into one of the trolleys they’d snagged. It’s already close to full, packed high and teetering, but they _do_ need clothes, and Daryl still feels weird about the concept of stealing from someone’s old wardrobe. “Fruit’s the worst.”

“I hate the meat,” Jesus admits, “I used to be a vegetarian, before all this. Not a great one, really, but sometimes smelling this makes me want to actively give up on life.”

Daryl snorts. “You know you got a penchant for drama?”

“Aren’t you the one who blew up a group of Saviors with a rocket launcher?”

“Who told you about that?” Christ. That’s so long ago, now; nearly nine months since the first real exposure they had to them. 

Jesus smirks. “Sasha. She said you also got stabbed and walked it off. Called it a flesh wound.”

“Technically,” Daryl begins, and Jesus turns to him like he knows it’s going to be funny. It’s a weird feeling, the want for attention and affection, the pride in his gut, but it’s good. “I have flesh, and it was a wound.”

“It was two inches wide by her count.”

“Well. I have a lot of flesh?”

Jesus laughs. “Alright. That’s fair. Uh, you done on your end? I’ve filled a couple bags full of more cheap meds. A few packs of condoms. Did you know they sell finger vibrators here, too?”

“‘Cause there’s always a demand for that at Hilltop, huh.”

“Well,” Jesus says, “sometimes they can be fun.”

Daryl flushes and starts out towards the truck. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t!”

“No.” He smiles into the sunshine. “No, I don’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can almost smell the homophobia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter:
> 
> -thoughts about child abuse  
> -homophobia, racism, but not fully expanded upon  
> -self-loathing  
> -death of an animal  
> -usual walking dead gore

Calling the bar a dive would be an understatement.

It’s the kind of ugly and run down that says it was a mess before everything went to shit, and it definitely hasn’t gotten better after the dead started walking around like the world’s worst tourists.

“It’s not so bad,” Jesus says, kicking away the hand of a walker that’s more mush and tar-like blood than an appendage, “almost homey.”

“There’s something wrong with your brain,” Daryl tells him. “S’like somewhere my brother’d go before.”

Jesus fake-shivers. “I can almost smell the homophobia.”

Daryl snorts despite himself. 

Jesus isn’t wrong; there’s a tattered confederate flag up behind the stacks of dusty glasses, a sign that declares NO GAYS in a scrawl that’s barely legible, some racist propaganda bullshit on a beer-stained leaflet taped to the wall. 

It’s the kind of place Merle would have found himself in. The kind of place Daryl wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole.

He’s half-tempted to turn back around and leave, because the ghost of his dead brother is at his back like it hasn’t been since the prison, but there’s a herd coming and the only other alternative they’ve got is a bombed out house two blocks away. Turns out Weedville isn’t going to stay quiet for their last day before they set out for Penfield.

Jesus spreads out his jacket on the stained floor and settles back on his elbows. “We could set fire to it when we leave?”

“Eh,” Daryl says, but internally his head’s reeling at the thought. 

Little Beth Greene, with her wide, forgiving eyes and bravery, middle finger extended, burning down a memory of a home Daryl spent years trying not to think about.

It feels like a bad omen to burn another place like that down, like it’ll be a repeat of history; like in a day and a half Daryl’ll turn around to find Jesus gone, captured. That he’ll find him soon after that, brains blown across a perfectly swept, sterile floor.

He busies himself with checking cupboards and a gap in the floorboards behind the bar. Pulls out one extremely dead and rotting rat, two chunks of cheap store-brand chocolate, and three cans of corned beef. 

He pockets the beef and sits down. Jesus watches him with eyes too bright in the dark.

Jesus is crunching his way through a bag of apple crisps, the ones soaked in honey and cinnamon that Carol is always making. He shouldn’t look as cute as he does, drool on his chin, crumbs in his beard, blood from walkers he’s struck down up his forearms. Especially not when he starts talking through the mess in his teeth.

“What’s your favorite animal?”

Daryl blinks. He’s not sure he’s ever had a favorite anything. But, “cats. I like cats.”

Jesus smiles; slow, at first, and then wider until his whole face looks bright in the grim filth of the bar. “That makes sense. You remind me of a cat.”

“Me?” Daryl asks, like he and Jesus aren’t entirely alone, except for the tacky deer head next to the door. 

“Mhm,” Jesus agrees. He pockets the bag he’d been picking through, and shrugs. “Grouchy, territorial, loyal to a fault, secretly needy for attention…”

“Bullshit,” Daryl tells him, and absolutely doesn’t think about the fact he’s brought more than his share of meat to the table in an attempt to impress him.

“Very, very cute,” Jesus continues, like Daryl’s not glaring at him, “and fluffy.”

“Ain’t _fluffy_.” 

His beard says otherwise. Jesus seems to know exactly what thought he’s just had, too, because he starts absentmindedly brushing his fingers over his own chin.

Daryl glares at him harder.

“No. You’re right. You’re terrifying.”

Daryl sighs. He misses the days when everyone stayed away from him and he could go on his own because he didn’t matter.

Fucking family. Fucking ‘sticking together’. Fucking _Jesus_.

**__________**

The sun’s going down by the time the herd passes completely; stragglers taking up the end with rattling moans. 

Daryl’d hoped they’d be able to leave by now, but apparently the dead love to fuck shit up. 

He drops the curtain (covered in some nasty substance he’s trying not to think about), turns back to Jesus. 

“And here I thought Weedville was going to be better than Kersey.”

Kersey had been a mess from start to finish; one of the first houses they came across had been overrun, crawling with the dead. There’d been over sixty in that place alone, and after they’d awoken them they hadn’t stopped coming for them. 

Even sitting on top of a roof hadn’t stopped their approach, and in the end they’d left with nothing more to show for it than back ache and a spectacular graze along Paul’s left calf that’s in the shape of Texas.

“Y’only thought that ‘cause you’re a fuckin’ stoner, fuckbrain.” It’s hypocritical. Daryl spent most of his twenties in a pot-haze, the entirety of his thirties chain smoking and working through panic attack after panic attack.

Jesus just rolls his eyes, though, starts setting up candles around the part of the floor they’d cleaned up enough to sleep on. They could leave, go sleep in the back of the truck, but the shithole bar is warm and dry and the truck smells like bad plastic ever since that run Rick went on and ended up melting a tarp.

He’s ninety percent sure it happened because Rick was trying to tug one out and knocked a candle over.

“It feels like poetic justice,” Jesus says. There’s a candle in the shape of a dick that he lights with way too much glee. “You know, to stay here when they would have hated us.”

Daryl shrugs. He can’t shake the feeling he’s being tracked with every move, but he knows it’s bullshit. The only person here is Jesus, and he’s too busy warming the place up with their meagre supplies. 

He knows the reason it feels like someone’s watching is because of that flag staring at him from behind the bar. Knows it’s Merle’s ghost in the back of his head throwing slurs like weapons, knows it’s his pa leaving him bloody and broken on their bathroom floor that makes him want to vomit.

It’s not reality. It’s not present. But, Christ, it’s hard to remember that.

“It’s trash,” Daryl says instead. 

Jesus glances up at him like he knows what Daryl’s thinking. Daryl swallows and sits down beside him on their worn sleeping bags. 

Jesus, bless his soul, changes the subject. “What’s the course for tomorrow? Penfield’s the one we narrowed it down to, right?”

“Penfield,” Daryl agrees, “gotta check the last of the places we spotted today, though. Think the herd took a lot with them. Should be safe.”

“Good point.” Jesus folds himself over double, fingers straining to touch the very tips of his boots. They’re somehow completely clean, still gleaming, even after four days of running and killing and scouting.

Daryl tries not to think about all the fantasies that this is inspiring, and focuses on the ceiling instead.

Marked with smoke stains, splashes of blood, and damp turning to mold, it could be his childhood living room. Hell, even taking in the rest of the joint (overturned and destroyed tables, fire damage, racism like decor), it _still_ could be.

A packet landing in the crook of his crossed legs pulls him from the phantom pains licking up his spine. 

“Is this,” he holds it up, turning it this way and that in the candlelight, “is this weed.”

“Mhm. Weedville lives up to its name,” Jesus agrees. There’s a smile on his face, and he looks relaxed, even here. Like he owns the place. “Found some when I was checking the cellar. There’s more in my pack. Figure we could work out how to plant it when we get back to Hilltop; might be good for pain relief.”

“You got papers?”

Jesus smirks. Tugs a battered pack of rolling papers out of his pocket, tucks it into Daryl’s open palm like a secret.

Daryl sets about rolling a joint, tugging open one of his old cigarettes for some tobacco so they’re not getting ridiculous levels of stoned. “You done this before?”

“I took Philosophy in college,” Jesus says, like it’s an answer. 

Maybe it is. 

He licks the glue (can’t get over how gross it is, even after all this time), flattens the paper out, and passes it off to Jesus.

Jesus regards it like it’s God’s own creation. He lights it on the dick candle, and then sucks in a deep breath that makes his cheeks hollow.

He’s so fucking beautiful. Daryl’s going to blow his brains out if he keeps having feelings.

He passes it back to Daryl and Daryl tries not to think about the fact their mouths have been on the same thing, that this is a kiss by-proxy. 

It’s stale, but under that there’s a faint lemon taste that makes him think about that pie Carol made two months back. “Not bad.”

Jesus nods. His hair’s pulled out of its usual bun, and even greasy and lank he looks like something ethereal, pulled right from a fucking romance novel. “Not the worst I’ve had. I remember I found some about six months after I got to Hilltop. Tasted like ass, and not even in the fun way. I puked for three hours after, but that might have been Mueller’s cooking.”

Mueller, who comes up to Daryl’s shoulder and is fucking ancient, is the most terrifying person Daryl’s ever met. Negan’s nothing on her.

First time he’d met her, he genuinely thought she was trying to poison him with her fish-fruit fusion cake. He’d been too nervous to say no.

Maggie had laughed so hard she’d cried.

“Pretty sure that old lady could kill someone with that shit. She had Negan by the goddamn balls.”

It’s not even an exaggeration. Watching Negan face down Mueller and _lose_ had been the best moment of Daryl’s fucking life.

“I think she only lets us live ‘cause she pities us,” Jesus admits. A strand of greasy hair falls into his eyes. Daryl has to sit on his hands to stop from reaching over and feeling it between his fingers. “She could take us all out if she wanted to. But… I thought that about you, when I first saw you.”

Being put on the same pedestal as Mueller and her never-ending supply of gruel is the weirdest pride he’s ever felt. “Fuck off.”

“It’s true!” Jesus twists himself around in one quick movement, sleeping bag crinkling under his ass. “I mean, obviously the first thing I thought when I saw you was that you were hot as fuck, but after that you looked like trouble.”

Daryl flushes and takes another hard drag. It’s been so long it’s already hitting him, head going a little calmer. “That’s some bullshit.”

Jesus wrinkles his nose and steals the joint back. His lips wrap around it like they’ve never tasted anything better. “You’re hot, and sexy, and compassionate, and funny. You can’t tell me you don’t see that?”

Daryl thinks about the prison, and Rick’s fingers sliding into him and the soft moans Rick had made, like he’d been a sight for sore eyes. Thinks about Martinez’s cock, hot and heavy on his tongue. 

Thinks about the fact Jesus still looks like a model covered in blood, and Daryl looks like something the cat dragged in. “Hm.”

Jesus cocks his head. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

 _See what?_ He wants to say, bathed in the orange light of dying flames. _That I’m three seconds from being on my knees for you at all times? That I’m ass-deep in love with you? That nothin’ I do is ever going to be enough for you, because you deserve everything the world has to give and more after that?_

“Think you’re a liar,” Daryl says instead. He’d forgotten about this side of smoking; that it loosens his tongue and makes him just a little flirty. That’s something he should have thought about, but it’s too late now. “Think you ain’t looking close enough at yourself. Know everyone follows you ‘round, right?”

Jesus pauses. “They don’t.”

“Kal,” Daryl says, counting his name off on a dirty finger, “that prick Alex. Jerry. Earl. Gary. Carson. Eduardo. Hell, seen Ezekiel takin’ a look and I’m not even sure he swings that way.”

There’s a weird look on Jesus’s face, a light in his eyes that makes Daryl’s hackles rise on instinct. “What’re you lookin’ at me like that for?”

“Rick,” Jesus starts, putting the joint down on the filthy ground, “Aaron. Eric. Glenn. Kent. Arthur.”

“Who the fuck is Arthur?” Daryl snorts, even though a part of him is reeling. _Glenn_. What the fuck.

“The kid you saved last month,” Jesus says. His face is set, jaw strong, like he’s going into battle. “The one who almost got bit but you _pulled out of the way_. He’s been crushing on you ever since. Heard him talking to Enid about it.”

Daryl blinks. Blinks again. “Don’t think you know what a crush looks like.”

“I’ve seen Rick look at you,” Jesus insists, “with Michonne or not, you’re his second, and I’d put bets on him still wanting you. I’ve seen Aaron and Eric look at you; Christ, I was pretty sure you were _all_ together when I met you. I’ve seen _Glenn_ look at you, and he never looks at _anyone_ besides Maggie. Kent’s obvious. He never shuts up. People look at you all the time. You’re just too stubborn to see it.”

Daryl realises what he’s seeing, then. Moments too late. Rage, ticking away in Jesus’s jaw, like the fact Daryl doesn’t notice people wagging their tails at him is a pet peeve.

“Everyone follows you,” Daryl starts, but Jesus glares at him, and he shuts up.

“It’s not -fuck, it’s not _the same_. I know some people do, okay, but people do with you and it’s like you don’t even realise how much you-. How much of an impact you have on everyone around you. You could drive a man to insanity, the amount of shit you miss.”

Jesus is panting, face gone pink, eyes wide and annoyed, and there’s not a part of Daryl that doesn’t want him. So fucking much.

“People follow you because they want to have sex with you,” Jesus says, “people follow me because I’m good at putting on a mask and being someone I’m not.”

“I,” Daryl tries. His voice cracks, and Jesus shakes his head.

“Don’t. I need to sleep, I’m not with it right now. Sorry for blowing up at you.”

He leans over to blow out the candles, starts tucking himself under the sleeping bag, and Daryl pokes him.

Jesus glares through his hair, mouth curling. 

“You can stop,” Daryl tells him, “bein’ Jesus. If you need to. Least around me.”

“Okay,” Paul says (because that’s who he is, really, who he’s always going to be), “alright.”

“Goodnight, shitbrains.”

Paul smiles at him, strangely vulnerable, and settles down to sleep. As if being insulted is some kind of declaration of trust and appreciation.

Daryl watches the way he breathes and tries to hold back the want. It doesn’t work. It never does.

**__________**

“You’re sure this is a good idea?”

Paul’s staring at the lake like it’s going to jump up and bite him, arms crossed over his chest and legs together. 

Daryl shrugs out of his vest, starts unlacing his boots. “Not gettin’ back in that shithole of a truck with both of us stinking like we do.”

“Fair point.” Paul still looks like he wants to die, but his eyes aren’t darting around anymore.

They’ve just finished up scavenging the rest of the houses around Weedville; thirty walkers in total, all so far gone they were more bone than what used to be people, and they’d managed to find some boxed inflatable mattresses in a few attics. A few new sleeping bags. Some cans that lost their labels.

The truck’s just pulled off the road, out of sight from anyone who might pass, though it seems unlikely anyone’s going to appear. 

The lake they’ve found is almost crystal clear, which is good. They’ve already loaded up some water, purifying under the baking sun.

There’s no reason for Paul to be panicking like he is, Daryl’s sure, until he says, “we’re going to have to get naked. You know that, right?”

Here’s the deal: Daryl knows Paul knows about his scars. You don’t live in close quarters like they have without knowing everything there is to know, accidental glances or not.

There’s a difference between _we’ve only got a fifty foot trailer to share for now, who cares_ , and _we’re the only two people here, alone, completely naked and vulnerable, bathing together._

Daryl’s heart picks up in double time. 

“Seen it all anyway,” Daryl says, voice somehow steady even though he’s this close to cracking apart, “saw Rick shit himself from bad rabbit once.”

Paul laughs. There’s a hysterical edge to it Daryl’s never really heard before. “I’m sure he’s glad you’ve shared his past with me.”

“Eh,” Daryl grunts, and starts pulling off his socks. Lays all the clothes he’s pulled off on a rock for scrubbing. “He’s seen me doin’ worse.”

That winter between the farm and the prison had been difficult for everyone. Doesn’t bear thinking about.

“So you’re okay with this? Getting naked?” Paul asks, like Daryl’s not standing there in his underwear and plaid shirt with the arms ripped off. 

“Ain’t no big thing,” Daryl says, and starts wading into the water. 

By the time he’s hip-deep, Paul’s just starting to tug off his shoes and pull his shirt over his head.

The water’s cool, sweet. Daryl dunks his head so he doesn’t have to think about the fact Paul’s going to be very, very naked very, very soon. Yanks off his shirt while he’s still under and then pushes to the surface to lay it on the same rock as his boots.

Paul is…

 _Beautiful. Perfect._ Everything he’s ever fucking wanted.

He’s already dunked his head under the water, so his hair is dripping and leaving trails down his strong shoulders, over his rounded biceps. He’s so fucking gorgeous, nipples pale and dusky pink under the sun through the trees.

Daryl grabs for the little bottle of shampoo he’d stolen from an old farmhouse and starts dragging his hands through his hair because the alternative is letting himself get hard. 

There’s the low thud of boxers smacking against the bank of the creek, and then the gurgle of water as Paul dunks himself under again. 

Daryl stares at the suds running down his arms and wonders why this is his life, and why he lets Maggie talk him into this shit.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you clean before,” Paul says, and Daryl glances at him even though it feels like staring into the sun.

There’s purple foam rolling down his head in rivulets, the same in his beard, and he’s starting to work away at the grime on his shoulders, his strong arms. The way his neck bends to clean himself off makes Daryl want to go under and never, ever come back up.

“Fuck off,” Daryl grunts, “just ‘cause I don’t primp and preen like a fuckin’ parrot.”

“A parrot?” Paul laughs, and then sputters when soap slides thickly into his mouth.

Payback. Even if seeing the thick liquid slide down Paul’s chin makes Daryl’s gut clench for more than one reason.

“Always fussin’ their feathers,” Daryl tells him, and does a vague impression that makes Paul’s face light up, sun catching on his perfectly straight teeth until he looks like he’s swallowed light on his pretty tongue.

Daryl shoves his head under the water and works the soap out of his hair, and only takes the little bottle Paul’s handing to him when Paul’s mostly submerged, nose and eyes and the very top of his hair exposed and nothing else.

He kind of forgets, sometimes, the height difference between them. It’s hard to stop noticing, now, when Daryl’s got his entire neck out of the water and Paul looks one dislodged chunk of mud away from drowning.

It’s a nightmare trying to clean the dirt from his face. The water laps at him and the soap barely makes a dent, and in the end he has to wade back towards land so he can start scrubbing his legs clean, since they’re the worst off.

The mud that comes off him isn’t exactly alluring and sexy.

Daryl wonders, not for the first time, how the fuck he ever got Rick to sleep with him.

“Can you,” Paul sighs, waddling closer, snorting water out of his nose like a fucking hydrant, “can you get my back? I think I scratched it up and I don’t want it to stay dirty.”

Daryl almost cries. Nods anyway, because apparently he doesn’t hate himself enough.

Paul’s back is soft, pale, and mostly unmarked. There’s thin, long grazes where he’d been pressed against a wall earlier on, fighting off walkers with deft kicks and a deadly knife. Besides that, he’s pristine. Untouched by the horrors around them.

It’s hard to see him as anything but Godly when he’s like this, bathed in clear water and orange sunshine. 

Daryl rubs into his shoulder blades carefully, soaps up the grazes as lightly as he can, and then starts rinsing it away with soft splashes of water that still manage to make Paul’s breath catch.

“Sorry,” Daryl grunts, biting at his bottom lip just to keep himself from leaning forward and tasting, “shoulda warned you.”

“It’s,” Paul says, voice cracking, “it’s fine, no worries. Doesn’t even hurt.”

His shoulders tremble, though, going pink, and Daryl frowns. “You gettin’ a fever? You look like you’re a little flushed.”

“No!” 

Daryl blinks, and Paul glances over his shoulder at him with frenzied eyes and shakes his head.

“No, I’m not, uh,” Paul tries, and then brushes a soaked and well-pruned hand through his longer hair, “not getting sick. Sun’s getting to me.”

“You should drink somethin’,” Daryl tells him, and tilts his head back to the bank. Their water should be done, by now, and Paul smiles like he knows something Daryl doesn’t.

“Not that kind of thirsty,” he mumbles, but when Daryl gives him a questioning look he just turns to get to the bank.

He levers himself up easily, climbing onto a rock and wrapping a makeshift towel around his hips as he moves towards where his clothes are.

Daryl pretends like the curve of Paul’s ass, the sweet freckled thighs and his strong, bruised calves aren’t the only thing he’s going to think about for the rest of his life.

Daryl stares for too long at the line of his back, the red lines of the grazes, the soft tufts of hair under his arms.

By the time Paul’s hopping into his pants, one leg at a time, Daryl’s only just climbed out of the water.

Paul’s brought out one of their clothing packs, so Daryl figures he might as well use some of the clean underwear he’d brought along.

Except, “‘Sugar Baby’?”

Paul grins, winks, and then tugs his hair into a bun that dribbles water down the nape of his neck like performance art. “Found some in that dollar store. Thought it fit your look.”

“Mhm,” Daryl says, and sighs before pulling them on anyway. They’re surprisingly comfy, sort of snug, and when he’s finished adjusting himself they even look kind of nice. Nicer than the pair that’s stained with walker blood, at least.

Except the words written across his ass, but then. Not everything’s a win.

His pants are still soaked, so he struggles into a pair of the sweats he’d packed and then just throws on his vest with no shirt. He can wear the shirt again, since he’d washed it, but it needs to dry out or he’ll end up sick. Snotting around when he could be _doing_ shit has never been his favorite.

Paul’s in something similar; normal army-style pants changed out for slim jeans, a too-big shirt, his usual duster, and his boots. And still managing to look like a model while he does it. Fucking prick.

“Penfield?” Paul asks, red over his cheeks. He swallows extra hard when he drinks from the bottle, and Daryl can’t work out why. 

He shrugs anyway, eyes narrowed. “Penfield.”

**__________**

Penfield is… primarily grass. 

Grass, and overgrown crops, and so ghostly quiet even Paul looks off-kilter. 

Maybe they should have guessed that, given the name. Maybe they’re really off their fucking game. Maybe goddamn Johnsonburg is the only lucky break they’re gonna get. How embarrassing.

“I feel like we overestimated Penfield,” Paul says, voice strained as he’s cracking open one of the pumps at a gas station.

He looks good. Hair back, wrench in hand, using all that coiled strength to rip the metal seams apart. 

“Dunno,” Daryl says, staring at a walker that’s too damaged to be worth killing, “Glenn’s always saying there’s never anything worth havin’ that ain’t hidden.”

Paul takes a deep sniff and sighs. Pushes back from the cracked apart hunk of metal and rocks on his heels. “Empty. Fuck.”

They both stare at the pump, like it’s going to start gushing anything helpful at them. It remains dried out and useless.

“I think,” Daryl says, “there’s a city near here. Can’t go all the way in, don’t wanna risk it, but there might be some good places on the outskirts.”

They break into the Post Office. There’s a few maps of the area, and a little leaflet about DuBois and its highlights.

The office has already been ransacked, including the cash register. Not a lot of smart people at the start, apparently. Daryl would bet everything he has that they spit at people like him before the Turn.

“We could get this,” Paul says, holding up a creepy fucking mask of some celebrity, as if the world doesn’t have enough horrors.

“Shut up,” Daryl tells him, starts circling potential goldmines. A high school. A gigantic fucking Walmart. “Oh, shit.”

“What? Are we gonna die?” Paul’s hand settles on Daryl’s hip to steady himself as he peers at the map. “You’re joking.”

“We got rope,” Daryl says, circling the Harley store on the map, heart already lunging at the thought. God, he could have a real fucking _bike_ again. “Don’t gotta put it in the truck, could lash it to the top. Don’t even know if there’s gonna be any there.”

Paul sighs, but there’s a smile at the corner of his mouth anyway. “Fine. But we’re going to that gunshop if it’s not overrun. Might get lucky.”

Daryl grins. Paul grins back.

Maybe Johnsonburg won’t be the thing that saves their asses.

Thank the fucking Lord.

**__________**

DuBois is out of their way by nearly an hour, after they’ve rearranged traffic snarls to fit the truck through.

But once they get there, out of breath and starving, it’s almost immediately obvious that it’s worth it. The city is dead, but not crawling with walkers. Daryl would take bets the residents all left a long while ago, what with all the issues getting here.

More shit for them, anyway.

They start at the Walmart, grabbing stuff first in the supplies area round back before they get into the actual store, making noise to draw out the dead as they go.

Paul’s eating one of Hilltop’s gross power bars, and Daryl’s got his flashlight clenched in his teeth tight enough to make his jaw spasm.

He only tugs it out and wraps it onto his crossbow when Paul gives him a look that reads _you’re an idiot_ even in the dark.

It’s godawful here. Dank, stinking to high heaven, so dark it’s like a void of reality. There’s the groans of the dead surrounding them, and it’s a dumb risk to take but they need the supplies and it could end up being worth it.

Maggie chose them both for a reason; they’re capable, strong, won’t let anything stop them.

“You know,” Paul says, taking down a walker dragging itself along on broken wrists with a well-placed kick, “it’s sort of domestic. Like shopping.”

“You’re twisted,” Daryl tells him, shoving canned pasta in the trolley that’s already mostly full. Capitalist hellbeast Walmart saves them once again, long after currency stopped meaning anything.

It makes him think about Tara, the way she still rants about the unfairness of the wage gap if she gets drunk enough, and for a moment he misses her (all of them) enough to make his gut ache.

Paul arranges several boxes of PopTarts into the kiddy seat, and Daryl rolls his eyes but lets it happen. 

He’s just turning down the cleaning aisle when there’s a crash and a guttural moan behind him.

He barely ducks out of the way before the walker sinks its mouth into his throat, and he quickly clutches at its skull before slamming it into the shelving. By the time it’s gristle and bone, there’s three more rounding on him and he’s gotta keep moving.

His knife slides one to the ground easily, and he uses his arm to hold one of their jaws shut before he digs his fingers deep into their sunken eyes until he feels the squelch of brain. It falls, limp, from his grip, like a bowling ball where it’s attached to his first two fingers on his right hand.

“Prick,” he calls, carefully dodging another lunging walker before crushing its skull with a punch way too similar to one of Paul’s, “you here?”

There’s a yell a couple aisles over, and Daryl-. 

He’s felt stressed, before, he’s been panicked, before. He’s been riddled with anxiety and rage and every other emotion in between, and he’s lost so many people now it feels too easy to go with the grief as it settles into his bones.

He’s never lost someone he’s loved like Paul.

He skids around a display of rotten fruit, takes out four walkers, and by the time he’s found his way to the source of the scream his heart’s pounding and his hands are trembling and he _can’t do this_.

He can’t go back to Hilltop without Paul, or Paul down one limb or two, or Paul-.

“Paul!”

There’s a circle of walkers, making sick tearing noises as they rip into something, and Daryl’s stomach lurches and it takes a moment for his vision to clear, even as the walkers get distracted and come for him.

 _Do it_ , he thinks, _just fucking do it_.

The walkers fall one by one. Eight dropping like flies, blades pushing easily through their long-dead skulls. Brains and blood and eyes splitting and dribbling down rotting faces as they collapse, finally at peace.

Paul rolls out from a shelf with a look of pure rage on his face, and Daryl only has a second to regret all his life choices before Paul’s on him.

“You fucking piece of _shit_ ,” he growls, and Daryl ducks away from a severe hit that could have broken his arm if Paul landed it, “you motherfucking _idiot_ , you absolute imbecile, I fucking hate you, you’re the fucking _worst_.”

There’s blood covering him from head to toe; the spray of a slit throat covering him from jaw to knee, but not his own. Bits of internal organ caught in his hair, in the collar of his jacket, a bit of intestine swinging like a necklace with every punch he tries to land.

He moves like a tornado, all wild but precise fists and strong legs that arch forward to try and pin Daryl down. 

Daryl can only duck away from him, letting the produce scatter to the ground around them, slowly getting drenched in rot like everything else. Paul could kill him. He’s very, very aware of that as the power of one of Paul’s strikes misses him with a whistle that leaves his head spinning.

It takes a moment for him to realise that through the rage, Paul’s crying, and when he does his heart breaks apart in his ribcage.

Surrounded by the dead, blood smeared up his neck, hair matted with sweat so soon after washing himself, Paul swings again, and Daryl does nothing to avoid it; lets it land in his gut, feels the nausea that washes over him and doesn’t think before he moves forward.

Tugs Paul into a hug. Buries his face into his neck and _breathes_.

“Sorry,” Daryl says, voice catching and crumbling in his throat, “sorry, sorry. I’m sorry, Paul, I’m so sorry.”

“You gave up,” Paul whispers, nose nudging at the joint of Daryl’s jaw and throat, like he’s scenting him, “I saw it. You stopped fighting. Why’d you- why would you do that?”

“Sorry,” he says again, but it doesn’t feel like enough. _Why’s Paul so upset, anyway?_ “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

Paul’s hands flutter over his shoulders, his arms, his back, sliding over bare skin and clothes; checking for bites, for any injuries more serious than a graze.

Daryl’s doing the same, he realises now, hands settling over Paul’s strong thighs and finding the fabric of his pants intact. God. God, fuck.

He glances at the thing the walkers had been tearing at. A cat, maybe, but it’s more gore and viscera than animal now. 

_Distraction techniques_ , he thinks. The shit Paul taught the kids at Hilltop. _Learn to work with what’s there. You can’t always come out on top, so use what you can and fight dirty._

This had been one of those things. Just another ploy, another way to stay alive. 

The same Paul he’s seen sketch birds and squirrels, the same one he’s watched tear up over a bundle of found kittens. The Paul who protects his own with zero thought for himself. The Paul who lives under a mask because the idea of being seen and judged hurts too deep.

This isn’t that man. This is the Paul who sacrifices an animal to survive. The Paul who isn’t Jesus, who has never been him, because Jesus is a manifestation of purity, and Paul is angry and kind and gentle and cunning.

“Paul,” he murmurs, and Paul shudders in his grip, and this is a bad idea, it’s a terrible idea, it’s not safe, here, they need to go, “ _Paul._ ”

“I’m sorry,” Paul whimpers, whole body trembling with the slow death of adrenaline, “I’m fine, and I’m alive, and I’m sorry for hurting you.”

“Sorry for givin’ up,” Daryl tells him, and pulls back.

Paul’s a mess; snot and blood and sweat matting his hair back, and Daryl loves him desperately.

“Need,” Paul tries, voice cracking, smearing blood over his face with a trembling hand, “have to get the cart. Then… I can’t keep going right now.”

“No,” Daryl agrees, “I got you, c’mon.”

If Paul tucks himself close to Daryl’s back, knives in hand, then it’s their secret to share.

**__________**

Paul takes an hour to calm down, and even as Daryl’s closing the back of the truck, new loot piled up, there’s a set to his face like he’s far away.

“We’re okay,” Daryl reminds him, “we’re alright.”

Paul’s eyes slide to him, glassy and red-rimmed. His nose is rubbed raw. “Should have done a better job clearing it. You could have died, and it would have been-.”

“No,” Daryl tells him, buckles Paul in since he doesn’t seem like he’ll do it himself, “I wasn’t the one that got cornered like that. But I woulda been, ‘cause I thought you were gone.”

Paul’s jaw clenches. “I don’t. You can’t just let yourself die because you think something’s happened to me. What if I hadn’t been there to stop it?”

Daryl stares at him, at the picture he makes against the door of the cab. The way his hands are still trembling and he looks a fucking mess, blood crusted around his chin and his eyebrows, a bit of intestine still hanging on his duster.

He’d been so insistent on bathing. He’d wanted to be clean _so_ badly.

Daryl’s pulling up tp the pool he’d seen on the map before he realises what he’s doing.

“What’s this,” Paul says, voice horrifically monotone. He sounds half-dead, and if Daryl didn’t know him like he does, didn’t know he’d never put them in danger, he’d think maybe Paul got bit.

“Get out,” Daryl tells him, and Paul obeys.

The pool’s not great. Most of it’s covered with a tarp, but the part that isn’t is covered in scum and dirt. It’ll do for what they need, though.

Daryl starts tugging off Paul’s jacket with gentle hands, and Paul just relaxes into it. It makes him think about the possibilities, the idea of having him like this, sweet and pliant, the idea of sucking kisses into the long line of his throat and making him beg.

“You’ve only gotta put your face in if you want to,” Daryl tells him, and Paul nods slowly, “just figure it might bring you back.”

“Okay,” Paul says, and shakes his shoulders. “Hold my hair back?”

Daryl agrees, and Paul sinks slowly to his knees and tugs the tarp back. He barely pauses to take a breath before he buries his face in the water, scrubbing with his filthy hands.

The dirt that comes away from him makes Daryl hurt for the day he’d first met him; when Rick had pointed out that he was groomed, clean. 

His hair is dirty but still conditioner soft in his grip; the way he loves it to be. The way that catches the light and Daryl’s breath all at once.

There’s a flood of bubbles, and the sound of muffled screaming, and then Paul pulls back, face red-raw but blissfully clean, eyes back to normal.

Daryl tugs him close. 

Paul sobs into his shoulder, and Daryl’s entire being becomes sparks and flames.

**__________**

Night’s fallen by the time Paul brings it up.

“I’m not worth dying for.”

Daryl glances up from the book in his lap, stares at the way Paul’s hands twist in his lap, anxious and unsettled. “You are.”

It’s obvious, to him; Paul is worth everything. He’s worth dying for and reinventing himself for and living for. He’s worth the goddamn world. There’s not a cell in Daryl’s body that wouldn’t hand itself over if Paul just asked.

And he never would, is the thing, because Paul never asks. He gives, and he gives, and not once does he request back in return.

“I’m not,” Paul insists, and there’s a look on his face like he’s going to either fight or fall apart, and Daryl’s seen both and he doesn’t know what’s worse, “I’m _not_ , Daryl. If one of us dies on this trip-.”

“We won’t.”

Paul glares, takes a shaky breath. “If one of us does, it’s going to be me. Because you’re the one that has to get back. You have a family. You’ve got Rick, and Michonne, and Carl and little Judith. Maggie, Glenn, Tara, Rosita, Aaron, Eric. You’ve got everything, you’ve-. You have them, and they’d be lost without you.”

Daryl’s throat aches. His entire being _hurts_. 

Paul spends so much time loving and never expecting anything back. Holds his wounds closed and laughs while he’s doing it so he doesn’t stress people out. Watches the clouds with Enid and draws with Maggie and creates happiness in the people around him without knowing it.

Gets followed and doesn’t want to be a leader. 

Daryl’s in love with a fucking idiot. 

_Not worth dying for._

Like he didn’t pull Daryl from the brink of death after the Sanctuary. Like he wasn’t the only one who trusted him with knives and guns for a long while after. Like he didn’t give Daryl his bed and his home and his _clothes_.

_Not worth dying for._

Like he didn’t tear Daryl right in two and put him back better more than once. Like he hasn’t seen the worst humanity has to offer and still come back from it. 

_Not worth dying for_.

Like he’s not the only thing that kept Daryl fucking _sane_ ; not the Jesus persona, too large for life, but Paul Rovia, with his deft hands and fighting skills and weird collection of facts.

As if Daryl hasn’t looked at him and thought _I’d die for you a thousand times over and it wouldn’t be enough_ before. As if it doesn’t run like white noise in the back of his head every time Paul is near him.

It’s too late for this argument. He made his decision a long time ago.

“You wanna do this right now?” Daryl asks, and Paul gives him a look that could level cities.

“What other time is there?”

“Fine,” Daryl shrugs. Dog-ears the book and puts it back in his pack before he stands. 

They’re only in the truck for the night; the plastic stink is better than the horrors of the city at night, and the day’s been bad enough that neither of them give a shit.

“You’re talking shit,” Daryl says, and Paul’s fists clench at his sides as he stands, too, chin tilted up. “Again. Maggie loves you. Glenn loves you. Tara loves you. Everyone’d be lost without you. Rick would kill for you. Has. Michonne, too. Carl likes you. Enid likes you, and they don’t like anyone.”

Paul’s shaking, and he looks so small, flooded with the blue shine of their flashlights, face seeming paler than it ever has.

“Ezekiel, Jerry, every fuckin’ person at Hilltop. Alexandria. The Kingdom. Half the Saviors would be dead if it weren’t for you. And sometimes I think that’s a bad thing, that they’re alive, but you’re a good guy, and you got a good moral compass, and Christ if that ain’t hard to find now.”

Daryl moves forward, and Paul looks him in the eye and bares his teeth, and how doesn’t he _fucking see_. “You ain’t Jesus. None of you is pure. None of you is this idealistic hippie bastard who loves all. You’re a survivor, and you’re dark, and you’re cunnin’, and you’re ready for anything.”

His hand settles over Paul’s chest, feels the rapid thump-thump-thump of his heart. Rabbit quick. “You ain’t gonna die. And there’s no way I’m going back without you. Don’t care if you get bit, or shot, or hurt. Don’t give a fuck. You’re not dying. I’m not gonna let it happen. I’ll keep you alive through spite alone. Because even hurt and angry you’re a better guy than the rest of us put together.”

Paul takes an unsteady breath. “You can’t die for me.”

“How you gonna stop me?” Daryl asks. “It comes down to it, you’re going back home. If I get torn to pieces and eaten in front of you, you’re _goin’ home_. But if you don’t survive, I won’t be able to go back. I won’t come back from it. Got it?”

Paul’s mouth trembles, falls open. “Got it.”

Daryl opens his book.

Paul leans into him and breathes like it’s the first time he’s done it.

Daryl tangles their fingers together, and exhales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr's [here](http://gaydaryl.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk about how oblivious paul+daryl are together and i'm on twitter @transrickgrimes!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. Daryl’s fucked. What else is new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter:
> 
> -explicit content (a lot of sex talk in this one, finally)  
> -talk about negan's lineup   
> -mentions about dead kids in the form of walkers   
> -daryl being a goddamn oblivious idiot fool
> 
> as always, usual zombie gore stuff

They hold hands, now.

It’s not what Daryl should be paying attention to in the grand scheme of things, but he focuses all the energy he has left over on it anyway.

The first time it happened, that night after DuBois, he’d taken all he could get of Paul’s warm, unmarked hands. The way he gripped tight when his breathing went a little unsteady, the way he softened his hold when he was letting his shoulders go loose.

And then it kept happening; Woodland, Sandy Ridge, Bald Eagle, Newry.

Small brushes of fingers against circular scars that had his heart crawling up into his throat.

They’re six days away from getting home, but Daryl’s never felt more at peace than he does now, with danger at their backs every moment and Paul’s steady grip.

So. Daryl’s fucked. What else is new?

**__________**

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Uh,” Daryl tries, hand clenched in a box of old records, “why?”

He’s not sure _yeah, with you, anyway did you find anything in that second bedroom?_ is going to go over that well.

Paul shrugs. He’s ethereal in here; the garage is open, lock all busted, so there’s sunlight just coating him like a second skin where he’s leaning against the handrail. White shirt with the top three buttons popped open, like that’s not enough to get Daryl keeling over and begging for mercy.

“Just wanted to know. Found a diary up there. It… let’s say it piqued my curiosity.”

“Like it needs help being piqued,” Daryl snorts, and when Paul’s eyes glint mischievously, “ _don’t._ ”

Paul pouts and starts down the stairs towards him. Like Mr Darcy in that one series he’ll never admit to having watched. “So, have you? Been in love, I mean.”

Daryl looks at him, at the way his mouth is rose-pink, his well-cared for beard, his slightly fuzzy chest where it’s exposed. “Yeah. Yeah, I have.”

Paul cocks his head. “Huh.”

“Huh?”

“Just,” Paul shrugs, but there’s a look at the corner of his eyes that says _not what I expected_ , “didn’t take you for the type.”

“The type to be in love.”

“I guess it’s stupid.”

Daryl snorts, stacks up a couple of Springsteen records in one of the crates they’re loading up. Maggie better appreciate it.

Hell, _Glenn_ better, since it might get him laid.

(Better not share that thought with Maggie. She might use his testicles like windchimes.)

“Not stupid. Not Rick-levels of dumbassery. And I get what you mean, anyway.”

“Who, uh. Who were you in love with?”

Daryl blinks. Blinks again.

His head is screaming to move, get away, dump the box of musical aphrodisiacs and start up in the woods like Tarzan.

“Not,” Daryl tries, and Paul nods, sweet and slow, “not something I wanna talk about, man.”

And it’s not even those assholes he’s thinking about; the violence he’d faced over and over again years after he thought he was free. 

It’s Paul, with his Jesus facade and pretty eyes and soft mouth, with his obsessively collected Chapstick and loyalty, with his kindness and compassion and his _everything_.

“Sorry,” Paul says, brushes a hand over his eyebrow, “sorry, I shouldn’t have pressed.”

“Not a big deal, man. You got any need for Sinatra?”

Paul lets out a relieved breath and starts with the sorting.

Daryl’s heart leaps when Paul’s fingers graze his.

**__________**

There’s only so much corned beef you can eat without gagging at the sight of it, is one thing Daryl’s learned on this excursion.

The other is that Paul sleeps naked, where he can.

He sees it for the first time the night they get into Everett and nearly has a heart attack.

“Man,” he says, voice cracking, “what the fuck?”

“Shit,” Paul hisses, dragging a moth-bitten shirt around his shoulders, “shit, uh. Sorry.”

Daryl’s been on watch for seven hours straight. His eyes hurt, his bones ache, he just wants to sleep.

Being confronted by Paul, relaxed and stretched out, all lightly tanned skin and fuzz… Not conducive to a sleeping environment.

“Why the fuck are you,” he tries not to stare at the part the sheet doesn’t cover; a strip of darker hair and paler skin, just before where Daryl knows his cock is, “goddamn naked, Rovia?”

“I,” Paul tries, and his cheeks are bright red even in the low light of the rising sun. “Christ. I sleep naked, when I can? It’s too hot to wear my sweats, and I… Just. Uh.”

“We coulda got overrun,” Daryl says, but they both know it’s unlikely, that that’s at least half the reason Paul decided to strip off and settle down. That neither of them are stupid enough to take a risk like that. Especially not after DuBois, “you wanna be fighting the dead with your balls floppin’ about?”

“A nutritious snack for our undead bedfellows?”

“Oh. My God.” Daryl takes an unsteady breath. “Get dressed. Please? I need to sleep, and this is gonna give me a fucking aneurysm.”

Paul stares. “You weren’t like this when we were bathing.”

“Was,” Daryl says, and then backtracks fast, “was prepared for that, wasn’t expecting to get down here and find your dick two inches from a bloodstain.”

“Pay a lot of attention to the geographical location of my penis, Daryl?”

“I’m telling you now. I will kill you.”

Paul snorts and rolls his eyes, like he hasn’t watched Daryl dismember someone. Like Daryl couldn’t strangle him.

He won’t, can’t bear the thought of laying a hand on him, but he _could_. Paul is a dumbass and Daryl loves him anyway.

Daryl settles down on the heavily stained couch and tries not to watch as Paul wriggles into a pair of cargo pants and then slides his duster on without a shirt.

He doesn’t deserve this. He’s a good person. He’s _trying_. Paul’s going to kill him for being gay.

Paul’s hand strokes over his head before he leaves, and Daryl thinks about his fingers touching behind his ears until he settles down to sleep.

**__________**

**__** _Hands grip at his waist, strong and untouched by brutality no matter how much blood they spill._

_“Stay still,” Paul tells him, bottom lip bitten between white teeth, and Daryl obeys without thinking. “Be good for me.”_

_“Wanna,” Daryl mumbles, arms above his head, torso stretched long. It’s the first time he hasn’t felt ugly in years. “Please, Paul, wanna touch you.”_

_“Hm,” Paul sighs, grinding back against Daryl’s slowly leaking cock, “no.”_

_Daryl sobs, so close just from this, being held down and made to behave, being looked at like he’s a three course meal and Paul’s been starving. His eyes are blown black, and Daryl can almost see his own reflection in them, if he squints._

_“Wanna come,” he begs, hands twitching against the headboard, “Paul.”_

_“Not until I do, sweetheart.” Paul rocks back again, hips twisting with the movement, hands warm and strong against Daryl’s hips, thumbs over deep scars._

_“Not,” Daryl tries, teeth bared, “not sweet.”_

_“Look at you. All spread out for me. Of course you’re sweet. Of course you are. My beautiful good boy.”_

_Daryl’s cock twitches, and Paul smirks at him, mouth falling open when he moves one hand to slide over the bulge of his cock through his tight boxers, tip smearing precome over his hands._

_Daryl wants to taste it, wants to suck the taste of Paul off his fingers and tear him apart until he’s in pieces like Daryl is, but he doesn’t move. He’s good._

_“Maybe I’ll let you fuck me,” Paul muses, thumb flicking at the tip of his cock, “maybe I’ll hold you down and make you fuck me until you forget your name. Maybe I won’t let you come; just leave you like that. Serves you right, teasing me like that.”_

_“Wanna make you feel good,” Daryl tells him, voice gone raspy. He wants to be fucked, he wants to be turned over and used until come drools out of him and slicks up his thighs. He wants to be good for Paul, in whatever way he can. “Fuck my mouth,_ please _.”_

_“Such a good boy,” Paul sighs, and thumbs over Daryl’s mouth, letting it slip inside._

_Daryl tongues at his fingertips, at the taste of salty-sweet come on Paul’s hands, sucks hard until his cheeks go hollow._

_Paul rolls back and comes, hard, over Daryl’s stomach, like a work of art, like something beautiful._

**__________**

“For fuck’s sake.”

The ratty blanket he’d been using as protection from the brisk morning is sticky with rapidly cooling come, and Daryl’s cock twitches against his thigh like it’s making an attempt for an escape.

A wet dream. He’s in his fucking forties, and Paul Rovia is making his dick act like he’s seventeen again, three fingers deep in a gay bar’s bathroom while he fantasizes about actually getting picked up by a guy.

The worst part is that it’s not even the sex that’s getting him going, again; it’s the intimate way Paul handled him, the way he looked at him.

“Daryl?” 

Daryl damn near throws himself over the back of the couch when Paul emerges, duster unzipped halfway down his torso, like he doesn’t realise how he looks.

His dick twitches again. Daryl glares at it like that’ll change anything.

“Nothing,” Daryl says, holding the blanket around his shoulders the way Paul had just a few hours previous, when Daryl’d found him naked and vulnerable and achingly pretty, “bad dream.”

It’s a lie. Paul seems to know that, though, if the way his eyes moves says anything; slow and assessing, head cocked as he takes in Daryl’s state.

He hopes to fuck he isn’t flushed, but knows it’s a long-shot.

Daryl can’t remember a time in his life he’s ever come without going red from his hair to his navel. 

“Okay,” Paul says, slow, and moves forward like maybe he’s a little nervous, “you sure?”

“Mhm,” Daryl tells him, but he can feel his dried come on his inner thighs and it’s not doing anything for the heat on his face or the one settling in his gut, “nothin’ serious, man. Sorry for botherin’ you.”

Paul shrugs, mouth twitching. “Nothing much to do here, anyway. There was a group of about five walkers an hour or so ago, but since then there hasn’t been anything.”

Daryl’s deeply glad for the change of subject, settles himself onto the arm of the sofa and nods. “Took care of ‘em?”

“Yeah,” Paul agrees, “climbed down and got them. Listen, you are _sure_ you’re okay, right? You haven’t got heatstroke or something, have you?”

“Grew up in Georgia, Rovia, I know what heatstroke is.” _Symptoms definitely don’t include coming in my pants thinking about you putting me in my place_ , he doesn’t add.

Paul sighs. “Fine. Wanna go, then? If you’re awake enough?”

“Sure. Give me a minute to get set up?”

Paul nods, wanders back into the little kitchen, and Daryl stares at the ceiling and hopes he gets fucking murdered in cold blood.

Or maybe a rotter’ll rip his dick right off, and he won’t have this problem any more.

Wishful fucking thinking.

**__________**

Paul’s hand is a solid weight against Daryl’s palm before they push open the door of the church they’re looting.

It’s not exactly helpful in the way of getting into the survival mindset, but if he concentrates on the dead shambling towards him instead of the way Paul looks when he throws a knife, it’s not so bad.

He’s not sure when it became a thing, really, besides that DuBois was the catalyst for Daryl’s mental downfall.

Every house they go into, every store they root through, it’s all preceded by Paul’s hand finding his in the heat, three strong squeezes before releasing and leaving Daryl feeling weirdly empty.

There’s not many dead in here, anyway. Small blessings. 

They drag them back out the front and start searching.

A couple of bottles of booze in cut out sections of bibles. A huge stack of cans under a banner advertising OOD B NK. A couple of rifles. Bottled water, set up in crates behind the pews.

“Go Everett,” Paul mumbles, dragging the crates of water over to the door for easier loading later, “way to put Bedford to shame.”

Bedford had been a nightmare; most of the houses had been firebombed, probably way at the start of the turn as a solution to the dead, so the melted walkers they’d come across had been more like glue than people.

They’d lost three knives in three different skulls before they resorted to blunt force.

There’d been an ash-covered basement full of ammo, though, which had been the only thing that made either of them breathe a little easier.

“DuBois’s always gonna be the fuckin’ worst,” Daryl tells him, “so much shit an’ not enough people.”

Paul’s face pales almost imperceptibly before he goes over the cans. “Nothing they could have had would be worth losing you.”

Daryl’s heart speeds up for a second, so Daryl goes back to pickpocketing the vicar who’d blown his brains out. A lighter. Three crumpled cigarettes.

Jackpot.

He lights up before responding, and by that time Paul’s already managed to sort the cans out by level of importance.

“Back atcha,” he mumbles around a mouthful of smoke and dry tobacco, “always.”

Paul’s face flushes, and when he grips tight onto Daryl’s hand after they finish loading up, he knows what it’s for.

**__________**

“Closest near-death experience?”

Daryl grunts. The sun’s finally setting, and they’re parked up about a mile out from Valley Mall. They’ve both got a feeling it’s either going to be another Johnsonburg or another DuBois, but it’s worth the risk.

The truck’s three-quarters full, and they’re five days from coming home. They’ve got time and space, and Daryl’s only halfway to a mental break triggered by Paul’s arms in candlelight.

Hell, maybe another close shave is what he needs to get his head away from the fact Paul does literal, actual yoga.

“Terminus,” Daryl settles on, since it’s the one that gives him the least bullshit mentally if he thinks about it, “lined us up like pigs for slaughter. Smashed a couple guys over the head and slit their throats. Glenn woulda-. He woulda died, if it weren’t for Carol blowing the place sky high.”

“They were the cannibals, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“Shit,” Paul sighs, “the Saviors were bad, but at least they didn’t fucking eat people.”

Daryl snorts. “What about you?”

“That kid,” Paul starts, swallows hard, “Rory. The night Negan came and threatened us for the first time. Negan started making eyes at me, so Rory drew his attention. He got his skull smashed in to save me.”

Daryl flinches. That night on the road, tarmac slick with blood and gristle, Rick truly ripped apart and put together wrong again.

Abraham dying because Negan knew he was the strongest and it’d rattle them all. Using his last breath to spit out an insult at Negan’s feet.

Glenn getting his leg split open from thigh to shin, still struggling to walk without a limp even now, months after.

“Shit,” Daryl says, “that’s fuckin’ awful, man, I’m sorry.”

Paul shrugs and lights their remaining candles. “It’s been a while. It gets to me, sometimes, you know? He was a kid. It should have been me.”

“It shouldn’t,” Daryl says, surprising himself with how quick it comes out, “shouldn’t’a been anyone. Shouldn’t have been a kid, shouldn’t have been you, shouldn’t have been fuckin’ anyone. Not Abraham, not Glenn, not Rory. Not anyone else they ever tortured.”

“I know,” Paul tells him, reaching out to squeeze Daryl’s calf, soft and sweet, mouth turned down, “realistically, I know that. Still.”

“Still,” Daryl agrees, and strokes over Paul’s knuckles, scarred from punches that never miss unless he pulls them. “Favorite weapon?”

Paul grins. “My engraved serrated knife. The one with the flowers in the hilt?”

Daryl nods. “I get that.”

“Do you like anyone right now?”

It’s so offhand and gentle Daryl doesn’t realise what’s been asked, at first, and then he freezes, hand around a bottle of water and starting to shake.

 _He knows_ , he thinks, nonsensical, even though there’s no real way for Paul to be sure, _he fucking knows_.

“Like a lot of people,” Daryl says, and takes three strong pulls just to avoid talking.

Paul bites his lip. “Like. Romantically. You don’t have to say, you know, but I thought -. I could set you up if there’s any guys…?”

“No,” Daryl barks, and Paul recoils for a moment, “I mean, nah, I don’t. Like anyone. No time for it.”

Like that’s ever mattered. Like that ever mattered when he and Rick fucked in broken down houses in the winter, like it mattered when Martinez fucked his mouth, like it matters now, when they’re all coming back from war and Paul is even more beautiful than he had been on the day they met.

Like the concept of _no time_ has ever meant anything, when it came to wanting.

“Right. Of course,” Paul coughs, averting his eyes, “obviously. Sorry. I guess I just like gossip.”

“Hang around too much with Carl and Enid, man,” Daryl says, although something about the way Paul’s face has shut off makes him antsy, “they’ll both end up robbin’ you blind.”

“Yeah,” Paul laughs, voice cracking, “probably.”

Paul doesn’t look him in the eye again that evening. It makes Daryl’s gut turn like he’s eaten bad meat.

He thinks he’s done something wrong, is sure of it, but he doesn’t know what.

He’s not got the courage left in him to ask, anyway, not when Paul drags a blanket over Daryl’s prone form so he doesn’t get cold in the night.

**__________**

“You call me Paul, now.”

“What?”

“Paul. You call me Paul. You didn’t, before.”

Daryl stares at him across the mound of walkers they’re stacking up. “It’s your name.”

“I mean,” Paul sighs, itching at a spot on his cheek flecked with blood, “yeah, it is, but no one else really… It’s not a problem, I just didn’t realise. Until now.”

“You ain’t Jesus,” Daryl tells him, “you ain’t nothin’ but yourself. Just thought you might prefer it.”

“I do,” Paul mumbles, weird flush crawling over his cheeks, “I _do_.”

“Alright.” Daryl pokes at his shoulder, and Paul sways slightly before righting himself. “That’s that, then.”

“Yeah. That’s that.”

Paul doesn’t take his eyes off him as they start banging on the glass surrounding the mall, though, even as the dead start stacking up and making the window panes creak warningly.

“Maggie doesn’t. Call me Paul, I mean. Sometimes, I think she might, but… she never does. And it’s fine, you know, it _is_ , because she doesn’t just like that persona, she still likes the real me. But.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to remember that when someone’s talkin’ to the mask. I get it. You gonna get all weepy?”

“Fuck off,” Paul whines, pushing at Daryl’s shoulder, “I’m not weepy. I just. I like being friends with you, Daryl.”

Daryl’s gut tightens and loosens all at once, and there’s a burning behind his eyes he tries valiantly to ignore as they start hitting the glass again.

It’s like this: Daryl has friends.

He has family, and loved ones; more than he ever expected to get.

He thought he’d die with Merle and no one else, and now he’s got a group of people he’d do anything for. Even the ones he can’t hang around for too long because they’re too much for him to handle.

Paul isn’t like that. 

Jesus might have been, always on that knife-edge of too-much and not-enough. 

Paul’s different. Paul’s the first man he’s ever been truly in goddamn love with, the first one who makes the word _brother_ feel tainted when it’s spoken, when Rick says he’s family. (And he is, he is, but he’s not just that, hasn’t been that since he shot that walker’s brains out and still let Daryl punch him after).

He’s not a friend, either, even though technically that is all they are.

Too much of Daryl’s heart is caught in the way Paul smiles to call him a _friend_ , to see him as nothing more than a brother in arms.

“Glad you’re in my life,” Daryl says, and reaches out to touch his hand.

Paul grips back with a wink, and Daryl cracks open the door to the mall with a bang.

It’s slow work.

Paul jumps, skips, hops all over the place, uses all that ridiculous energy to take down ten, fifteen walkers, and Daryl pushes them down like dominoes and knifes them before they can clamber up onto broken feet.

By the end of it, they’re both drenched in sweat and the stench of death, and Paul’s guzzling some of their water like he’ll die if he doesn’t do it fast.

The way his throat bobs makes Daryl’s heart do things he doesn’t want to think about, so he starts on dragging more of the dead into the already-lit pile they’d formed from before.

“I like this,” Paul says, the corpse of what used to be a kid over his shoulder.

They’ve never said anything about it, but those are the ones they lift up high. The kids, the ones who never made it past their tenth birthdays, the ones with small hands and no weight on them at all.

Even after all this time, there’s something that sits sick in Daryl’s stomach every time he sees them. Thinking about Sophia and the barn and Shane’s trembling rage.

“Imminent danger an’ homoeroticism?”

Paul grins, teeth white in his blood-soaked face, “I’m glad you’ve noticed that, too. But, no. Just… Being able to take them out. It feels good. Like we’re giving them peace.”

Paul’s so good. So kind, so full of light.

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees, throat tightening at the thought of it, at the way Glenn had said _we bury our dead_ all those months ago at the quarry, “yeah. It’s good.”

 _Dangerous as fuck_ , he doesn’t say. _Death wish personified_.

They both know the risks, there’s no point harping on about it.

Valley Mall, when they get inside, is peppered with bullet holes and covered with blood all over. 

There’s no more dead, at least, but they make noise to draw them out anyway when they start towards the stores with metal grates pulled down.

It’s good they’re pulled shut; the chances of stuff being left goes up exponentially, especially since most of the dead they’d come across had been so far gone.

“I have a feeling,” Paul begins, turning on the spot, arms out like Jesus on the cross, “this is going to be fucking good.”

“Shut up and get to work, douchebrains.”

Paul rolls his eyes, but slides to his knees anyway.

It definitely doesn’t do anything to Daryl’s gut.

“Keep watch while I’m doing this,” Paul says, like Daryl’s not already pressed himself against solid brick with his crossbow in hand, “might take a minute.”

“Losing your touch.”

“Screw you.”

There’s the steady sound of clicking as Paul goes to town on the locks, and Daryl watches with eagle eyes to see if it brings any dead down on them.

There’s a couple stragglers; ones too slow and decomposed to have made their way over when he and Paul first arrived, so Daryl takes them out with the crossbow.

He’ll get the bolts back later.

“Done,” Paul tells him, hopping to his feet and dragging the shutters up with him.

It’s a bookstore, wall-to-wall information, like Paul’s trailer but expanded into a bigger space.

“I think,” Paul says, brushing a hand over the cover of some romance book as Daryl ducks inside and pulls the shutter down after them, “I might be getting a semi.”

“Man,” Daryl grunts, shaking out his fingers and turning to look at the store. “You remember those rules I set? Still in place.”

“And yet you’re still being unbearably sexy. We’re at a stalemate.”

Daryl glances at the shelves and wonders if they’re strong enough for him to brain himself.

“Just start lookin’, asshole.”

Paul salutes him with a wink, and Daryl taps at the gun on his hip.

The list Maggie’s written for them doesn’t include a lot of books, but there’s a few notes scribbled at the bottom about stuff for revision, since the kids need to have some kind of education. Some others, like comics that no doubt Glenn and Enid added on when Maggie was compiling the list.

He starts with the revision books, grabbing anything that feels relevant, and as he’s moving into the romance section, stuffing them into a duffel, Paul brushes up against him with a steadying hand on his hip.

“Found some comics for Carl and Enid,” he says, peering at the book in Daryl’s hand, eyebrow cocked, “never had you down as the type for _Twilight_. You’re a man of many mysteries.”

“Shut up. S’for Maggie, she loves that sappy bullshit.”

“Hm,” Paul says, rocking on his feet, “not sure _Twilight’_ sright for that.”

“Why not?”

There’s a picture of a kind-of hot dude on the front, orange eyes and pale skin. Looks like every generic romance book Daryl’s ever come across in Maggie’s mini-library.

Sort of looks like the shit Paul keeps on his bedside table, too, except Paul’s usually include a bit more skin.

“Edward’s kinda abusive. Obsessive, you know, won’t let her do anything, breaks her car to stop her from visiting friends.”

“Yikes.”

Paul grins. “Yikes?”

“Feels like the right response,” he puts the book back, grabs for another since that’s a bust. Hell if he’s spreading that shit at Hilltop. “What about this?”

Paul thumbs through it and shrugs. “Sort of a classic. Never enough of those any more. Get it.”

Daryl obeys, shoves it in his bag, wonders if there’s creepy tones to Wuthering Heights like there are with Twilight, and hopes to god there isn’t.

The store’s got a mix of books, comics, and random plastic figurines originating from different books, and Daryl grabs a few of them all since he’s pretty sure Judith, at least, might benefit from having something like the figurines to bite on. 

“What genre do you like?” Paul asks, flipping through a brightly colored children’s book and setting it aside for Daryl to bag.

“Not sure,” Daryl shrugs, “anything’s alright. Prefer action and drama, I guess.”

“So, like, mysteries? Hm.” Paul turns on his heel and starts searching, before handing out a grey-covered book with a small smile. “Try this.”

 _Gone Girl_. Huh. “Alright.”

Paul’s smile grows, and Daryl promises to himself to read it, if only to keep that look there.

**__________**

“Does this suit me?”

Daryl glances away from the racks of baby clothes for a moment, and then has to do a double take.

Paul’s fully kitted out in a flowing red dress, cut low down his chest and cargo pants underneath, hair pulled out of his face in his signature top knot.

He looks so unfairly gorgeous it makes Daryl want to cry and implode at the same time.

“Eh,” he says instead, doing a so-so gesture, “seen worse, I guess.”

Paul rolls his eyes. “I look hot and you know it.”

“Look like every guy my brother beat up,” Daryl tells him, and Paul thins his lips, “so. Yeah. You look good.”

Paul ducks his head, smiles, and turns away.

The slight flutter of the dress matches Daryl’s chest in rhythm.

He doesn’t stop himself before calling out, “you should get it!”

Paul turns on his heel and smiles. “Yeah?”

Daryl flushes. “Yeah.”

Paul packs the dress up.

Daryl goes a little faint.

**__________**

“D’you think we can keep these intact?”

“Dunno. S’it worth it?”

“Maggie and Enid asked for some. Carl said he wanted to try. Just thought, since we’re doing so well with everything, it might be worth it. Don’t have enough luxuries these days. Red’s my color, anyway.”

“Hm,” Daryl pokes at the rows of polish, and picks out eight different ones that compliment Carl, Enid, Maggie, and Paul’s undertones, “these’ll look best.”

Paul blinks. “Huh.”

“What?” He looks over a maroon one that’s separated over time, shakes it to see if it looks any better like that. It does. He pockets it. 

“Just,” Paul shrugs, and there’s no sign of it on his mouth, but his eyes are bright like he’s grinning, “never expected you to be into this kind of thing.”

“Y’thought I was straight ‘til this trip, man. Not great at hints, are you? Never wondered why I like Aaron and Eric so much?”

“They’re easy to like. But. I see what you mean. Oh. Get this, too,” Paul points out a sea-toned blue, “it’ll bring out your eyes.”

Daryl smirks. Paul flushes.

Life ain’t… So bad.

**__________**

“Put the vibrator down, half-pint.”

“But it could bring us deep and unrivaled joy, Mister Dixon.”

“I’ll bring you deep and never ending pain, Rovia.”

“That’s kinky. I didn’t know you were -ow! What was that for?”

Daryl gives him a look.

“Fine. But I’m getting that warming lube, and you can’t stop me.”

**__________**

Paul slumps down, head between his knees, breathing hard and swearing through every wheeze.

Daryl isn’t faring much better; his heart feels like it’s trying to pry open his ribs and use them like a glockenspiel, and his lungs are doing even worse. Despite what he’s said for years, smoking just might kill him before the dead get their grips on him.

“Told you,” Paul hisses out between tightly clenched teeth, “I was faster.”

“You just,” Daryl tries, massaging out a stitch just above his gut, “zig-zag everywhere. Not fair.”

“It’s _fair_ ,” Paul grunts, face going back from its horrific red to its normal kind of sun-kissed, “we didn’t make _rules_. You put up a fair fight, though.”

“My lungs are gonna walk the fuckin’ plank.”

Paul laughs, breathless and just a little hysterical. He’s got one of their bags in his lap, now, slowly working through it with shaky hands to find a bottle of gatorade.

He takes a sip, passes it off, and Daryl downs half of it just to be a shit.

Paul pouts at him and retrieves a pack of nuts. “Why’d we do that again?”

“‘Cause you wanted to,” Daryl mutters, stealing a bundle of pistachios from Paul’s hand and shoving them into his mouth, “‘cause you’re fuckin’ evil.”

“Maybe,” Paul acquiesces, “still. I won, though.”

“I got in the fuckin’ door first!”

“You collapsed!”

“Closed the fucking door before I collapsed. I win, you prick.”

“I’ll be your prick,” Paul says, and frowns, “beat your prick? I don’t have enough oxygen in my brain right now.”

“What brain?”

“Ha. Ha. Just because I won.”

Daryl punches at him, so weakly and muscles still screaming. Paul slumps over onto the door of the truck and makes a pathetic little keening noise that somehow still manages to make Daryl’s dick take interest.

Homophobia in action.

“Don’t think Maggie would approve of using our valuable time searching for supplies racing across a parking lot.”

“She and Glenn fucked on the floor of a pharmacy,” Daryl says, blatantly ratting them out, because their whole ‘soulmates and romance’ bullshit got old when Daryl walked in on them for the fortieth time at the prison, “she’s got no legs to stand on.”

Paul wipes sweat from his forehead, makes a sound that’s half-whine and half-laugh. “Sounds like them.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees.

The first week Glenn got cleared for strenuous activity, Daryl walked in on them in flagrante eighteen times.

No one needs to see their brother’s dick that many times. It’s emotionally devastating.

“Still,” Paul says, tucking the bag of rations under the seat, “we did it.”

He reaches one small fist out for a bump, and Daryl gives him one, mimes an explosion as he pulls away, because he spends too much time with Carl and it’s starting to show.

Daryl starts the truck, and Paul slumps across the console to lean his head right against Daryl’s neck. Which is fine. It is. Totally fine. Daryl’s not about to burst at the seams. That’d be stupid and ridiculous and.

Completely, one hundred percent accurate.

“What’d you find?”

Paul’s spread across the seat, legs apart, arms around the headrest, and the part of Daryl that’s driven by his libido wants to kneel between his thighs and bite. “Usual stuff. Some meds, some books, a lot of clothes and boots. Food. Oh! And I got this.”

Paul leans down, rummages, and passes Daryl three thick boxes of cigarettes, unopened and lined with plastic.

Daryl whistles. “Oh, thanks. I got you a set of knives, if you want ‘em.”

Paul’s face goes bright. “Obviously I want them. Give me.”

Daryl points vaguely, and Paul leans over to rummage under Daryl’s seat, beard brushing against Daryl’s thigh.

Great. Fantastic. Daryl’s going to die. _Fuck._

“Got it,” Paul mumbles, tugging once, twice, overbalancing and landing with his cheek pressed to Daryl’s crotch and his hand gripping at Daryl’s thigh.

The truck swerves. Paul doesn’t move.

“Hello, sailor,” Paul grins, and Daryl swallows, tries to buck him off with one hand, but Paul grips tighter, fingers digging in, “was this planned?”

“Fuck off,” Daryl tries, but his voice cracks and his stomach’s rolling with warmth, and he’s three seconds away from poking Paul’s fucking eye out.

Paul, blessedly, listens for once in his life, moves back with a grunt and a hip wriggle that makes Daryl want to die in many complicated and varied ways.

“Mm,” he starts, and then finds the set of knives, sets them out on his lap with wide eyes. “Oh, Daryl. They’re gorgeous.”

“Whatever,” Daryl sighs, but smiles anyway.

Paul’s hand reaches over to curl over his fingers on the steering wheel, and Daryl thinks maybe losing the race isn’t so bad, if this is what he gets at the end of it.

**__________**

The thing about long runs is that at the end of it, when you’re all of a hundred miles from home and a real bed, all you can think about is the empty road behind you.

There’s something easy about being apart from civilization, even if running water and guaranteed meals are nothing to turn your nose up at. 

It’s good, though, being in a cramped truck cab that smells like fruit syrup and plastic, watching Paul’s face in his peripherals, catching as he draws in a notebook he’d grabbed, the way the fading light plays on his face like a song.

One hand loose over the steering wheel, the last rays of the sun warming his knuckles.

The road stretched ahead of them.

“Don’t wanna go back,” he says, without planning to, without really meaning it.

“Hm?” Paul glances up, tucks his pencil behind one round ear, pink from where it’s burned in the sun. “Why not?”

“Just,” Daryl mumbles, pulling the truck around a traffic block marked with old blood and broken up pieces of road, “like bein’ out. It’s good, back home. And I’d never leave ‘em, but.”

“There’s something relaxing about being on the road.” Paul agrees, smile warm on his face. “Like a road trip.”

Daryl snorts. “Don’t know if we got enough gas in the world for a road trip, these days.”

“Maybe not,” Paul allows, and sets his notebook on the shelf below the dash, turns so he can look Daryl in the side of the face, “but you’re right, though. I wouldn’t leave them, either. Maybe before you and Maggie and Glenn, before all of you, before-. I didn’t have a family, back then, to worry about. I do now. But sometimes I just look out and think… it’d be nice to just go and see what I couldn’t before. Because it all depended on money, because I had jobs, because-.”

“Always somethin’ holdin’ you back,” Daryl says, thinking about Maggie’s smile when baby Hershel grips at her chin, about the way Judy calls him uncle, “worth it, though.”

“Yeah,” Paul says, swallowing hard, “you are.”

Daryl’s hands shake. Paul goes back to drawing.

**__________**

“You’re joking.”

“Ain’t,” Daryl pokes the lid of a can at him in lieu of a finger, “Judy’s first word was bullshit. Never seen Rick look so betrayed in his life, man.”

Paul grins, sucks some fruit juice out from under his nails. “You raise a child and get betrayed anyway. The horror.”

“Tryna teach Hershel to say fuck,” Daryl admits, “he’s got shit down, so far, but Maggie keeps catchin’ me before I can make any headway.”

“You’re a heathen,” Paul tells him, grabs a handful of Daryl’s fried nuts, “an excellent example for our young.”

“Hey, man, I kept Judy fed for the first three months of her life, I’m owed some goddamn humor. Least she can do for using me like a jungle gym.”

His back hurts just thinking about it; Judith in all her clingy nearly three-year old glory, eyes glinting as she launches herself at Daryl’s legs.

He really needs to learn how to say no to her before she bowls him over like an over-enthusiastic labrador.

(He’s half sure Carl’s been teaching her the tricks of the trade Sometimes there’s too much innocence in that kid’s eye for him not to have been doing _something_. And Judy’s got that puppy dog look down.)

“You’re good with kids,” Paul says, crumbs spilling into his beard. Daryl works them out of his beard with an eye roll, and Paul just smiles, “did you ever… want any? You know, before.”

“Sometimes.”

As in: sometimes he spent hours researching. Sometimes he thought about being a dad, about being happy, about treating kids with the respect and adoration he never got. About all the terrible arguments and the ice cream nights and the school runs, about all the stuff he never got, everything he ever wanted to give.

He gets a taste of it, now, in the days and hours when Judith stays stuck to his hip, or Maggie lets him babysit Hershel, or when Carl talks to him about how shit-scared he is of losing everyone again like after the prison. When he bobs Gracie from side to side because Aaron looks thirty seconds from falling apart or collapsing and she’s cutting a tooth.

But it’s not like he’d always dreamed, and not just because the world’s fallen into disrepair around them, but because for all they’re family they’re not Daryl’s blood, and he’s never going to be their primary caretakers.

And that’s _fine_. Just. Sometimes.

“Sometimes,” he says, slow, “wanted to be a dad, you know? Give ‘em everything they want, teach them everything, make ‘em better than I could be. It never happened. Dunno if I could, now. Can’t lose anyone else. Not another kid.”

Sophia, stumbling out of that barn, the way Carol fell apart as he held her back.

That near miss with Carl the first time, and then the shot that took out his eye. Judith and being separated from Rick and Carl for weeks on the road after the prison. Gracie losing her family to the fight Daryl was a part of.

“Yeah,” Paul says, nudging at Daryl’s leg with socked toes, “I know. I wanted kids, too, for a while. And then everything happened, and it sort of took over everything else.”

He pauses for a moment to keep eating, sucking the dregs of one of their powdered energy drinks out of a dusty bottle, and Daryl watches and thinks about Hershel tugging on Paul’s hair and giggling at the faces he pulls. 

“For what it’s worth,” Paul adds, finally, just as Daryl’s thinking about a kid with blond hair and blue eyes and high cheekbones running around, “you’d be a good dad. And you’re a good person, too.”

Daryl touches the arch of Paul’s foot, rubs in deep to watch the way Paul’s eyes flutter and he groans. “You’re always gonna be better.”

“Jesus is better. Paul Rovia is a hot mess.”

“Paul Rovia’s who I’m talkin’ about,” Daryl tells him, focusing on the tiny hole on Paul’s big toe, “he’s the one I like bein’ with.”

“Oh,” Paul says, and then, foot tensing, ankle rolling, “Daryl.”

“Hm?”

“Kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr is here](http://gaydaryl.tumblr.com/) and my twitter is @gaycrossbow
> 
> will daryl get his shit together? maybe.
> 
> probably not


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's sick of the waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! sorry this is a day late; this chapter was fucking doing my HEAD in and also i've been severely depressed all week so it's not been a great time. anyway.
> 
> warnings:
> 
> -sex! actual sex! like, with touching and stuff! starts at **"Christ,” Daryl says, eyes blown black, thumbing at Paul’s bottom lip.** ends at **“Was it okay?"**. smut also has light d/s themes, with daryl being pretty submissive and paul being #in2 it
> 
> -mentions of abuse and self harm in fleeting ways
> 
> -usual walker gore
> 
> -a lot of sex talk in this one actually since theyre both fucking ridiculous and dk how to chill tf out

There was a kid across the hall from Paul’s apartment, when he’d lived in the city.

He’d watch over her, sometimes, when her dad had to take late shifts and she needed a babysitter; teach her the basics of self defence, work with her on assignments and art projects, sit sprawled on his crappy living room floor while she recited poetry.

She’d talked a lot about how her dad had taken a chance, after he and her mom split, how he got happier because he found a man who suited him better. 

_“You’re gay, aren’t you, Paul?”_ She’d asked, brown eyes warm and understanding from behind her frizzy curtain of hair.

 _“Yeah,”_ he’d agreed, because he wasn’t about to lie to a kid as smart as her, _“I am.”_

_“So why don’t you take a chance? Isn’t there anyone you like? No one like my dad?”_

_“No,”_ he’d told her, and it hadn’t been a lie, not then, not before the world ended and the closest thing to a relationship he had was a guy he met up with every Saturday at a gay bar, _“I don’t. I’m not sure if I’m made for it.”_

 _“Hm,”_ she’d said, thumbing through a battered copy of _Romeo & Juliet _and taking notes, _“did you know you scratch your wrist when you lie?”_

He thinks about that moment a lot, ever since he ran into Daryl smashing Fat Joey’s skull in with a lead pipe, about how from the second he met Daryl he’s been taking chances, and that this shouldn’t be such a big step.

His heart races anyway.

Daryl stares at him like he’s crazy, brings up one hand to chew on his thumbnail, the other tightening on the arch of Paul’s foot.

Paul could take it back, could break Daryl’s grip on his foot easily, brush it off as a joke.

He’s been brushing off his come-ons as a joke for months, though. He’s tired of it.

He’s tired of waiting, and wanting, and catching glimpses of Daryl watching him back, acting like he didn’t know what it meant.

He did. He does. 

Neither of them are subtle. It’s horrifically embarrassing.

It’s even more awful that it took Maggie manipulating them into a nearly month-long run to get to this moment, with Paul purposefully relaxing in Daryl’s grip, looking at him through lowered lids.

“What d’you,” Daryl starts, chewing hard on his nail. There’s a drop of blood where he catches his tooth on soft skin, and Paul desperately wants to clean it away with his tongue, “what’re you sayin’, man?”

“What do you think I’m saying?” Paul asks, stroking over Daryl’s wrist with his socked toes. 

“Uh,” Daryl says, narrow eyes almost slits in the dim light, hair in front of his face like a veil, “listen, Rovia, you ain’t gotta do this shit, you know? It’s not -. I’m gonna get the fuck over it.”

Paul’s heart clenches uncomfortably in his chest. His foot twitches. Daryl watches it like he’s not sure what to do with it, but doesn’t release it.

“Get over what, Daryl?”

Daryl’s hand twitches, spasms, and even in the low light, Daryl’s face reflecting orange from the candles, he can see the way his ears go pink.

“Ain’t,” Daryl says, and strokes his spare hand on his face. It leaves a streak of fresh blood along his cheekbones, “just. Forget it.”

“No,” Paul says, and finally jerks his foot back, and Daryl looks weirdly bereft before his face goes blank, “tell me.”

“Fuck off, Paul.”

Daryl’s shoulders clench up, and he looks three seconds from bolting, and Paul doesn’t-. He has to know, he _has_ to, because he’s thinking about tiny Olivia Florence and her wide eyes telling him to take a chance, and he can’t stop, now. He has to take this dive, even if it ends with his heart shattered in a ravine, because Daryl’s the love of his life, requited or not.

“Please?”

Daryl grunts, deep in his chest. “Why?”

“Because I want to know. Because I want to know what you’re thinking. Because I want to know if I’m barking up the wrong tree. I want to know if you know I’ve seen you looking at me.”

Daryl pales spectacularly at that. “Fuck, listen, I didn’t-.”

“No, Daryl,” Paul says, shifts closer. Daryl leans back, so Paul pauses, hands settled either side of Daryl’s thighs, looking up the long line of his body and just wanting to press himself close, “I’ve seen it. I was looking, too.”

“You. You, uh.” Daryl coughs, tugs at his hair like he’s ready to rip it out of his skull and use it like a garrotte, “what’re you saying.”

“I want you,” Paul shrugs, but his heart’s racing hard enough he’s shocked Daryl can’t hear it, “I want to be with you. If that’s something you want.”

“Me,” Daryl snorts, face cracking into something heartbreakingly sad and hopeful at the same time, like a puppy that’s been kicked before and just wants to be held, “you want me.”

“Yeah.”

“You fuckin’ met me?”

“Yeah,” Paul says, “that’s how I know I’d be fucking stupid to not want you.”

“Still stupid,” Daryl tells him, but his voice is softer, and one hand reaches out before dropping.

Paul grabs at it, shifts closer, tugs Daryl’s warm, scarred hand to his cheek. “Kiss me.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, smile quirking at his mouth, “I’d be fucking stupid not to.”

Daryl’s mouth is warm, lips chapped, and he kisses like he does everything else: single-minded focus, words on the tip of his tongue as it tastes Paul’s bottom lip.

It’s everything he’s wanted since Daryl pulled one of his shirts over his shoulders after the Sanctuary, since he saw Daryl stretched it out beyond repair. He sleeps in that shirt, sometimes, because it’s not good at anything else any more.

It still smells like Daryl, if he limits its use.

Daryl’s thumb rubs over his jaw, his other hand looping around Paul’s waist and tugging him close, and Paul laughs against his mouth because -. God, yes.

Paul leans over him, slides his legs either side of Daryl’s thighs, climbs into his lap like he’s wanted for-fucking-ever. Daryl’s got a lap made for sitting, for grinding on. Paul’s got one too many fantasies about fucking in the cab of that shitty truck that they’re both sure Rick and Michonne have also had sex in.

“Christ,” Daryl says, eyes blown black, thumbing at Paul’s bottom lip, “ _Paul_.”

“Yeah, baby?”

And Daryl’s response to that is _interesting_. He shivers, full-body, cheeks glowing pink, eyelashes fluttering. Paul sucks his thumb into his mouth, tastes the copper tang of his blood, the sweat on his skin, drags his tongue over it until Daryl whimpers.

“Please,” Daryl mutters, eyes caught on his thumb in Paul’s mouth. Paul sucks once, hard, and then lets it drop, spit clinging to it before the string of it snaps, “please touch me.”

“You want that?” Paul asks, smiling, tucks a strand of Daryl’s sweat-lank hair behind his ear, and wonders if Daryl would like it being pulled in sex, rough enough so his throat stands out like a pale beacon, loose enough he could still escape, “my hands on you?”

“Months,” Daryl sighs, forehead leaning forward to touch against Paul’s collarbones, nose dragging against the exposed skin, “wanted you on me for months. Don’t tease me, prick.”

“Hm,” Paul says, and rolls his hips once, revels in the catch of Daryl’s breath, “months, huh?”

“Shut up,” Daryl grunts, and then there’s the sharp pressure of teeth at the base of Paul’s neck, biting and sucking and all heat.

Christ. Jesus fucking Lord.

Daryl likes marking people up. Who knew.

Paul lets his head fall back for a moment, hips rocking in Daryl’s lap, gut twisting when he feels the hot line of Daryl’s dick pressed against him, throbbing. 

“D’you,” Paul starts, and has to take a shaky breath when Daryl moans against his throat, “you get wet? Leak all over? You ever think about me like this, sweetheart, all yours for the taking?”

Daryl trembles. “Yeah. Yes, Paul, fuck.”

“Really? What about, sweet thing?”

“Fucking me,” Daryl tells him, voice choked, fingers tucking under Paul’s waistband and rubbing over the skin of his ass, “inside me, holdin’ me down. Usin’ me.”

“Fuck,” Paul says, and then with feeling, “holy _fuck_ , Daryl.”

“Please,” Daryl begs, mouth hot as it makes its way towards Paul’s beard, “touch me.”

“Yeah,” Paul mumbles, “sit back, honey.”

Daryl obeys almost instantly, and when Paul’s finally got him on his back, hands on Daryl’s barrel-thick chest, he has to rock forward once to get some friction on his cock. Daryl whimpers again, high-pitched and positively needy, and Paul’s not going to live through this. 

“Where’s good?” Paul asks, because he’s seen Daryl’s scars and he knows that the thought of someone touching his own makes him sick to his stomach, sometimes. 

“Anywhere. Want-. Anythin’ you got to give me, Paul.”

Paul strokes a hand over Daryl’s chest, over the bump of his nipples through his shirt, thumbs over them until Daryl bites his lip and keens. “Here?”

“Yeah,” Daryl nods, arching, “ _yes_.”

“How about,” a hand clasping at Daryl’s clothed hip, the bit of him with weight to spare, the part Paul thinks about biting way too often, “here?”

“Anywhere.”

“Hm,” fingers trailing over Daryl’s waistband, tucking into the heat of him, scratching at the coarse hair of his happy trail, “here?”

“Paul,” Daryl chokes out, like he’s holding back every curse he can, “touch my cock. S’yours.”

_Holy fucking Lord._

Daryl rolls his hips up when Paul taps at his hip for help, and by the time Paul’s dragging down the zipper of his jeans, his cock’s leaking heavily through his boxers, leaving a dark spot on the front that Paul wants to taste.

“You okay with blowjobs?”

“Am I okay wi- I’m fuckin’ human, you asshole, just do it.” Daryl says, eyes widening, jaw setting, and Paul smirks at him.

He sighs, takes a breath, settles back down. “Please.”

“Good boy,” Paul tells him, settles himself between Daryl’s slowly spreading legs, feels the warmth of his cock twitch under his palm, “oh, gorgeous boy.”

Daryl rocks his hips a little, desperate.

Paul snorts. “Pathetic.”

Daryl’s breath catches so hard Paul has to look at him to make sure he’s still breathing, and he’s got one hand over his face, chest shuddering in with each breath. “ _Jesus_.”

“You like that?” Paul asks, thrilled. It’s been _so_ fucking long since he’s had someone even close to Daryl. He has a feeling nobody is ever going to compare, after. “Being told you’re pathetic for being this needy? This much of a slut?”

“Oh, God,” Daryl moans, cock leaking heavier under Paul’s spread hand, “oh, fuck.”

“Noted, darling,” Paul tells him, and finally, _finally_ pulls Daryl’s boxers down to his knees.

He’s thick, red and leaking, veined up the sides. Uncircumcised, but so turned on the head of his cock is showing anyway, glossy with precome.

Paul strokes over it, reverent.

There’s always been something good about giving head. About knowing he has someone’s pleasure literally in his hands, knowing one good twitch of his throat can pull a guy apart.

He’s never been with guys as sensitive as Daryl, though, who curls into himself just with Paul rubbing his fingertips over his balls.

“Needy,” Paul tells him, takes a slow stroke that ends with him dragging the foreskin back further and Daryl moaning, low in his throat, “so, so pretty, though. Look at you, baby, look at you.”

“Can’t,” Daryl mumbles, and bites hard at his hand, “Paul, I’ll come.”

“Just from this?”

The thought is hot, in all honesty; watching Daryl fall apart with only Paul’s fingers brushing up against him, watching come land in pearls on his stomach just from getting the slowest handjob in the world.

He wants Daryl in his mouth, though, so he leans back. Daryl sighs.

“Condom?” He asks, but he doesn’t sound happy about it.

Paul isn’t either, but, “yeah.”

Maybe if they get tested, or something; he knows Carson’s got a kit for that, so there’s a chance they could do it alone.

He’d love for Daryl to come in his mouth, to taste him for hours after. His cock twitches in his pants, and he rubs quickly to take the edge off.

“Bag,” Daryl tells him, “next t’dresser.”

Paul nods, shuffles his way over there.

Daryl’s bag is open, but the side pockets are all shut, so he searches there first.

He finds them pretty much immediately, as well as a sealed bottle of lube.

He raises an eyebrow, and Daryl just rolls his eyes.

“Like you ain’t been takin’ all the lube we’ve found,” he snorts, and then, because he wants Paul dead, apparently, “like takin’ it.”

“You’re going to murder me,” Paul tells him, lowering himself down between Daryl’s thighs, peeling open the condom and slowly pulling it over Daryl’s leaking cock.

“You think _this_ ain’t gonna kill me?” Daryl asks, hips rolling back and forth.

It’s a good thing they’re in a house, honestly, that they decided to bite the bullet and hole up in one of the places they’d passed. He’s got a feeling Daryl would just bring all their loot down on them, if they did this in the truck, the way he writhes just because Paul’s got one hand sliding over his cock and the other on his chubby hip.

He leans forward, smiles, takes the tip of Daryl’s cock in his mouth.

He tastes like latex, but this close up, he can still smell Daryl’s musk, the sweat that always reminds him of the woods, somehow. It’s almost as good as feeling Daryl’s cock leak against his tongue. Almost.

Daryl shudders, anyway, hand twitching desperately at his side. Paul pulls it to his head, and Daryl’s fingers slide through his hair like he’s wanted it for a while.

Daryl’s ridiculously thick, frankly, so much so that by the time Paul’s tonguing at the crown of his cock his jaw is already twinging in the _best_ way.

Paul’s already decided that he wouldn’t care if he died, now, with Daryl’s cock hot in his mouth, twitching at every slow twist of his tongue.

“Oh,” Daryl grunts, when Paul’s nose brushes against his stomach, throat opening to accept him. He’s barely holding back on gagging at the pressure, but Daryl holds back from thrusting like Paul expected him to.

Paul hollows his cheeks around him, sucks noisily, and Daryl’s thighs shake around his chest, booted feet flat on the floor.

He pulls off, wraps a hand around the base of his cock. His fingers barely meet. _God_.

“I ain’t,” Daryl tries, “not gonna last, Paul.”

Unbelievably hot. “That’s the plan, baby boy.”

Daryl twitches in his grip, cock blurting more precome. “Paul, please.”

“What’s up? What d’you want?”

“Wanna,” Daryl sighs, “come suckin’ you.”

Paul’s really facing down God and walking backwards into hell, right now, but good fucking grief. He’s never recovering from this, from Daryl with his pale lashes fluttering and his thighs shaking, the smell of him all riled up, the fact he’ll probably come just from pleasing Paul.

So he’s. Submissive. Paul’s cock _aches_ , and he quickly shoves his pants down before rolling a condom over his own cock.

“Oh,” Daryl sighs, and reaches for him with a sweating hand, “touch you.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Paul agrees, and drops his chin when Daryl’s hand and mouth wraps around his cock at the same time, in perfect tandem.

He’s graceful about it, somehow, even with his pants around his ankles and cock leaking in his own condom, wrist curling and mouth sucking at Paul’s tip with soft, vibrating moans.

“Like that, angel?” Paul asks, and is rewarded when Daryl hums around him, when shocks rise up his spine and his eyes have to close tight. “Bein’ good for me?”

Daryl’s hips roll against the ground, and Paul snorts.

“Pathetic,” he says again, and Daryl jerks forward, taking Paul’s length inside his throat in one quick slide, “oh, baby, there you are. Sweetheart.”

He buries one hand in Daryl’s hair, the other stroking over his chest, because his nipples’ve always been sensitive and the pressure of it is enough to almost have him coming.

It’s been too long since he’s had someone on him like this, and someone like Daryl, who gets off on pleasing? He hasn’t had that since before the turn.

Daryl hums around him again, and that’s it, he can’t, he-.

He comes hard, hand twitching, and Daryl pants around him and sucks through it, hips rolling so prettily.

Paul’s vision goes dark for a moment, and when he’s fully back to himself, Daryl’s got one hand around his own cock and moaning into Paul’s thigh, desperate and shaky.

“Good boy,” Paul tells him, and Daryl whimpers, nips at the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, “perfect boy, come for me, c’mon.”

Daryl does, hips twitching once, twice, shuddering out a cry and mouthing uselessly at Paul’s skin. Paul strokes a hand through his hair, pulls slightly just to see, and Daryl arches his neck back into it, eyes rolling.

“Pretty boy,” Paul tells him, and Daryl shakes, “that’s right.”

They’re quiet for a moment, then, Daryl trembling as he overcomes the aftershock of his own orgasm, Paul petting him and sliding one hand over the curve of his throat when he leans into it like a cat.

“Was,” Daryl tries, voice hoarse, and Paul’s cock makes a weak attempt at twitching, “wasn’t what I was expectin’, fuck.”

“Was it okay? Good? How’re you feeling?” 

Daryl smiles at him, lips red and puffy, eyes dark and slitted, drool on his chin. “S’all good, loser.”

“Good,” Paul says, and pulls him up for a kiss, tastes latex on his tongue and wrinkles his nose, feels Daryl doing the same, “although I really want a shower, now.”

“Fuckin’ priss,” Daryl snorts, tucking his head against Paul’s shoulder.

“Your priss?”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees, voice soft and sleepy, “f’you want.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

“Good,” Paul says, and kisses him again.

Daryl smiles against his mouth, and Paul grins back.

**__________**

Paul’s not expecting Daryl to be a cuddler, in all honesty, so waking up with a line of heat at his back and a nose pressing into the nape of his neck is a pleasant surprise.

Really pleasant, if he’s honest, because he’s always liked the intimacy after sex; the soft, adoring touches, the kisses that lead nowhere.

“Mornin’,” Daryl mumbles, voice even rougher than normal.

A primal part of Paul thrills at that; the idea that Daryl’s throat is fucked raw enough to make his voice gravel-deep.

“Guh,” Paul says back, hand winding together with Daryl’s where it’s splayed over his stomach, fingers curling in. 

Daryl snorts, kisses slowly at the line of his neck, and _oh_. Okay. So.

“So,” Paul tries, coughing, burying his face into one of the pillows they found in a closet last night before settling down to sleep, “last night happened.”

Daryl’s form goes tense where it’s plastered against his own, so Paul brings his knuckles to his mouth and presses closed-mouth kisses to the scarred bumps of them.

“Did,” Daryl agrees, “uh, s’it…?”

“Did you want it to be something?”

It’s easier, like this, talking without seeing Daryl’s face, just his warmth and the dusty sheets under them. 

“I,” Daryl mumbles, mouthing at Paul’s shoulder, “yeah.”

“Good,” Paul smiles, kisses his fingertips. Daryl’s breath catches. “Kiss me?”

Daryl tugs him over, one arm curling around his hip, the other stroking through his birdnest hair, and Paul’s stomach flutters.

 _I’m in love with you_ , he wants to say and doesn’t, because they just fucked for the first time last night and maybe that’s moving too quick, _I want to be by your side as long as you’ll have me._

He puts as much of that sentiment into the kiss as possible.

Daryl kisses back sweet and gentle, one hand pulling at his shirt, so maybe it comes through.

**__________**

It’s mortifying, how long it takes Paul to notice.

That Daryl has never shied away from his touch, that he’s only ever flinched after being woken from a nightmare with a hand to his shoulder. That, the rest of the time, Daryl leans in close to him, almost imperceptible.

Days before Maggie told him they’d be going on a run together, just he and Daryl, Daryl had pressed in close before correcting one of Paul’s crossword puzzles, smirk on his face, teasing comment on his tongue.

He knows parts of Daryl’s past, or enough, anyway, to put together a story: scars that are decades old, the marks of charred skin on his wrists. Daryl’s disdain for people who don’t treat kids with respect, the way he’d looked at that abusive asshole at the Hilltop like he wanted to tear him apart, or vomit, or both.

So he’d-. He’d expected shying away, really, that after kissing and having one hand on Daryl’s cock and the other touching his skin, he’d be pushed back and moved away.

It’s not until Daryl presses his knuckles into the nape of Paul’s neck as they’re getting ready that it truly clicks.

“Oh,” Paul says, blinking, the phantom warmth of Daryl’s hand still on his neck, “you like it.”

Daryl freezes, one leg in too-tight jeans, the other bare. “What?”

“You like being held.”

And it’s true, Paul realises all at once; the way he’d moaned when Paul touched him, just barely, the desperate way he’ll go in for hugs, like he’s expecting a punch but still hoping. The fact he let Paul sleep in his lap nearly two and a half weeks ago, and even when deep asleep Paul had felt the sensation of fingers in his hair.

“No,” Daryl says, but his ears have gone pink, “dunno what you mean.”

“You do!” Paul grins, steps close. Daryl pauses, swallows hard. “Listen, I mean. I get it, either way, but I’ve been there, you know, I-. I’ve wanted to be touched, before, and if you want… If you want that, you can have it. You can touch me. Any time.”

“Any time?” Daryl asks, eyes looking him up-down, jaw trembling.

“Mhm,” Paul takes one of Daryl’s hands, watches the jeans drop to the ground, presses Daryl’s hand to his waist, “see? All good.”

“Uh,” Daryl says, fingers clenching. It’s good; warm, soft, alive. “Okay. I-. Y’know. Just make sure I see it comin’, yeah?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

He presses a kiss to Daryl’s barely exposed collarbone, and smiles when Daryl’s breath hitches in his throat.

**__________**

They held hands, before they ever got together; quick squeeze, release, start moving.

It’s not like that, now. Not now that they’re becoming something. 

Daryl’s hand reaches for him in the truck, settles on his thigh. Daryl presses up close when they’re making their way through Culpeper, working out a route.

Paul moves slow before he touches Daryl back, and is always rewarded by something close to a purr in Daryl’s throat, by the sway of his body into Paul’s caress.

Daryl tangles their fingers together and smiles at the bloodstained concrete, and Paul’s heart races.

 _I’m in love with you_ , he doesn’t say, but fuck does he want to.

**__________**

“I feel like a slag,” Paul admits, rooting through employee lockers in a long-abandoned Starbucks, “I really did only go in for a kiss.”

“F’you’re a slag, what’s it make me?” Daryl asks, eyes narrowed.

Paul blinks. “Supremely beautiful?”

Daryl snorts, and Paul brushes one hand over his shoulder and leans in to press a kiss to his cheek.

“You are really pretty, though,” Paul tells him, and Daryl’s ears go pink, “especially when you’re coming.”

“I swear I’ll kill you, man,” Daryl sighs, but there’s a grin at the edge of his mouth.

Culpeper’s been a godsend, so far; the truck’s already mostly full, now that they’re two days out from coming home, so the things they’re collecting are primarily luxuries they haven’t had in months. Maybe since the start, for some of them.

He thinks about Maggie’s face when she’d written some of the notes down on the list, hopeful but trying not to be, about the careful way she’d written out _coffee/sugar_ in her delicate cursive.

Daryl hadn’t said anything when Paul pulled into the Starbucks parking lot, but he had hid a smile under his hair, so.

A win on all counts, really.

“You think this counts as coffee?” Daryl asks, levering a huge bag of coffee grounds onto his shoulders, legs spreading to accommodate the shift in weight.

Paul has to stop himself from sinking to his knees.

“I think Maggie’d drink mud if it came with stimulants,” Paul tells him, cradling a couple bags of sugar to his chest before dumping them in the crates they’d found, “Hershel was cutting a tooth last I knew.”

Daryl winces. “Judy was a goddamn nightmare when she was gettin’ teeth. Didn’t wanna be put down. Carried her for two weeks straight, felt like, ‘cause Rick still weren’t really with it.”

Paul thinks about Daryl, about the way his eyes always light up when Carl asks him something, the way his voice drops into a soothing tone when Judith tugs at his pants, about the excitement that was barely concealed in his face when Paul asked if he’d wanted kids.

 _I’d give it to you_ , he thinks, _if I could. I’d give you everything_.

He pockets a brand new Zippo lighter and hopes that’ll be enough, for now.

Daryl looks unfairly good when they’re dragging the crates out to be set up in the truck, haloed by sunlight, skin tanned and freckled across his nose, beauty mark standing out above his lip. Arms shining with sweat, gleaming with dirt, cobwebs caught in his hair like spun sugar.

“Hey,” Paul says, stacking the sugar on top of some shampoo they’d looted out of a house earlier, “sexy?”

Daryl sighs. “What?”

“You look like a wet dream come to life. You know that?” He starts tying down the most recently added crates, tight knots that’ll hold everything steady and hopefully keep from anything breaking on the way home.

They’ve been putting glass jars in the cab with them, just in case, so there’s a neat little row of nail polish in the passenger side storage pocket.

Paul had pretended not to notice how Daryl lined them up in color order, a muted rainbow palette.

“Can I draw you?”

Daryl pauses, arms flexing around a stained crate of sweetener. “Why?”

“We haven’t really got cameras,” Paul shrugs, but he feels just a bit embarrassed by it, “and I just-. It’d be nice to have a drawing of you where you know you’re-. Uh. Anyway. I have some of Maggie, you know, Glenn and Hershel, Enid, Rosita. Most people, really, but you don’t have to.”

“Paul,” Daryl starts, voice cracking, “you said _where I know_. You already got some?”

“I,” Paul begins, but Daryl’s eyes are knowing and wide, clear and beautiful, so, “yeah. In one of the books next to my bed.”

“Oh.”

Daryl coughs, and then passes up the crate, hands trembling around the cardboard. “Yeah. You can -. Yeah.”

“Really?”

“You want me to change my mind?”

Paul bites his lip. Shakes his head. “No. Not in a million years.”

“Sap,” Daryl tells him, but he helps Paul down from the truck anyway, one hand on Paul’s hip, the other with fingers twined together around Paul’s wrist, “fuckin’ idiot.”

“Your idiot?” Paul asks, hopeful. His stomach twitches like it’s telling him to shut the fuck up.

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees, tucks a strand of Paul’s hair out of the way, “guess so.”

**__________**

Before the run, before Paul had even started packing, Maggie had been watching him with eagle eyes and a set jaw.

_“Jesus,” she’d said, voice quiet, one hand pressing into his shoulder blade, “he won’t say no.”_

_“Not a chance I can take,” Paul had told her, watching Daryl make his way through the Hilltop crowd, shoulders rounded down, head ducked low before perking up when Enid bound towards him, smile wide, “can’t lose him.”_

_“You won’t,” Maggie’d said, voice soft, “sometimes it’s worth the risk.”_

He wonders, now, what it is that he gives off that makes everyone tell him that; first little Olivia, now Maggie, and Glenn, when he’s not too busy showing Hershel how to walk.

That some things are worth the risk.

It’s something he thinks about, when he watches Daryl tip a bottle of water over his head, rivulets sliding down his high cheekbones, catching on his bottom lip. 

That this is something he might get to keep, now; that seeing Daryl vulnerable and happy, limbs loose and eyes light with wonder… that might not be a one-off.

“We haven’t talked about it,” Paul tells him, legs criss-cross applesauce on an old picnic table, “you know. What we are.”

Daryl blinks against the sun, one arm shielding him from the light. “Thought we did.”

“I mean,” Paul allows, “sort of. But. I wanna know. If that’s… Okay?”

Daryl rolls his eyes, but steps closer, nudges Paul along before hauling himself onto the table, too. “Don’t gotta ask if it’s okay.”

“Alright,” Paul says, “I just. I need to know, if this is something serious, or if it’s-. I can normally deal with short-term relationships, and everything, but you’re, uh. You’re different, so.”

Daryl reaches out, catches his hand as it starts digging into the rotting wood. Rubs circles into his wrist until his palm opens up, and then slides his fingers against Paul’s with a smile twitching at his mouth. “Different.”

“I like you,” Paul tells him, and thinks about all the guy’s he’s said that to and finished it off with _but I can’t do this_ , “and I want this to be different. You’re really important to me, not just as a friend, and not as family, and I wanna make you happy.”

Daryl leans close, buries his face in Paul’s shoulder. “You do. Make me happy.”

“Oh,” Paul whispers, staring at their joined hands, “oh. Okay. Well. You make me happy, too.”

Daryl’s hands are scarred from his wrists to his fingertips. Some are small, circular, others are pale and long. There’s no part of his skin that’s untouched, and Paul knows.

He knows about the times Daryl will step into the trailer, dead silent with one hand close to his body, cigarette still clenched in one hand. 

He knows because he’s got the same scars over his thighs, from way back when all he ever did was smoke and get into fights and go to therapy and _lie_.

Daryl’s different. He’s always been different, from the day they met. All narrowed eyes and greasy hair and steady grip on a gun, ready to fight and equally ready to step down when Rick said _stop_.

Paul’s in love with him. Lit up by the sun, hair turned golden-brown, ashen-faced and sick, bleeding from a gunshot wound, smiling when he bounces Hershel up and down on one knee.

“I don’t,” Paul says, and there’s terror creeping in his throat, so he watches Daryl’s hands stroke over his own, instead of meeting his eyes, “wanna scare you away. At all. Not now, not ever, but I need you to know, I. I lo-.”

“Stop,” Daryl tells him, moving one hand up to Paul’s cheek, pulling his face close, and Paul has to close his eyes because it’s too much, “I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, mouth parted against Paul’s, starting a trail of kisses up to Paul’s eyebrow, “I do, too.”

**__________**

“Is fucking in a Walmart still illegal?”

“Don’t like that you know it was before.”

“Well. Sometimes, if a man loves a man very much…”

“They fuck in a chain superstore?”

“Yeah. It’s romantic, you know. Romeo and Juliet.”

“You better not plan on fuckin’ dying, prick. I’ll kill you.”

“I,” Paul sighs, and Daryl grinds against him roughly, one hand weaving into his hair, “you don’t understand how death works, do you?”

“You die twice, now,” Daryl tells him, kissing up Paul’s throat, “you die like a person, I’ll kill you like a fuckin’ walker.”

“Fair point,” Paul allows, and then shifts up against the wall, doesn’t even care when Daryl grunts in annoyance, “can I blow you, now?”

“Nah,” Daryl says, knocking his head against Paul’s shoulder, “sorry.”

Paul blinks. Blinks again. Daryl’s still pressed up against him, one hand tugging at the hairs at the nape of his neck, thigh up against his cock. “ _No?_ I mean, fair, but-. You were all gung-ho, a second ago, why not?”

Daryl tilts his head, “got company.”

There’s the low, gurgling sound of the dead, and then the _schtick_ of a knife being removed from a holster and thrown through the air. A body hits the floor. 

Paul grinds up, and Daryl groans softly against him.

“How many, do you think?”

Daryl takes a moment. “Hear about eight. No time.”

“I can’t believe I just got cockblocked by a corpse,” Paul mumbles, and nudges Daryl back carefully. Daryl pouts a little, so Paul kisses his jaw. “I was so ready to give head.”

“They’re a mood-killer,” Daryl agrees, “least you weren’t balls goddamn deep in me before you nearly got bit, though.”

“Rick?”

“Nope,” Daryl snorts, “even that dumbass thought to check first. Martinez. Fucked in an old station wagon. Never even got off.”

Paul snorts. “You’ve had so much romance in your life.”

“Well,” Daryl says, and rubs at his nose, “didn’t. Maybe…?”

“Now?” 

The domestic part of Paul’s head provides him with images like Daryl at their kitchen counter, working out what they need to make a rabbit stew. 

The part still hard thinks about being railed against the wall of a Walmart to the cries of the undead.

He’s not sure what wins.

“Now,” Daryl says, and then, “don’t goddamn rub one out now, dickbrain.”

“Aw.”

**__________**

Bathing with Daryl before they got together had been an exercise in restraint.

Trying to keep his hips below water, making sure he didn’t appear as turned on as he had been. 

Now is. Better.

Daryl always looks fantastic; even after the Sanctuary, Paul had wanted him with a fierceness that he’d never felt before. Hair soaped up, suds on his shoulders, dripping wet? That’s a whole new level of beauty.

And he’s allowed to watch, now, even though Daryl keeps looking embarrassed, averting his eyes whenever Paul catches him staring.

“You can,” Paul tells him, after the tenth time he’s quickly looked away, “look, I mean. I had your cock in my mouth, I don’t think this is inappropriate.”

“Shuddup.” Daryl huffs, dunks his head. He shakes the water off like a dog when he comes back up, “s’just. Y’know.”

“Do I?” It’s so hard to sexily stroll against the current of a river, but Paul does his best anyway. Daryl smirks at him. “Do I know?”

“You’re,” Daryl starts, “pretty.”

Huh. “Huh,” he says. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Might not be Jesus,” Daryl tells him, cheeks burnt pink, lashes lowering further the closer Paul gets to him, “but you’re the closest thing to God I got.”

 _“He ain’t great with words,”_ Maggie had said, months back, like a fucking liar. 

If it weren’t for the very real possibility of drowning, he might have swooned.

“Daryl,” Paul says, and settles one hand low on Daryl’s back, thumb tucked over a thick, knotted scar. “You’re a fucking poet.”

Daryl laughs when he kisses him, and Paul feels like his body turns to ash, nothing but warmth where Daryl holds him in place.

It’s odd, now, getting to touch him; hands sliding up his naked, scarred back, fingers catching on dents where lashes once hit hard. Odder still to feel Daryl touch him back, no hesitation, hands steady on his shoulders, when it cups the back of his head.

“Are you trying to get me horny?” Paul asks, when Daryl presses a kiss right behind his ear.

“Depends,” Daryl says, grinning, “s’it workin’?”

“Hm,” Paul sighs, traces a hand down Daryl’s back right to the curve of his ass, squeezes hard enough for Daryl’s breath to hitch, “maybe.”

**__________**

Paul had never really liked stargazing, before.

In the city, the sky had been so polluted anyway there’d barely been anything to see, and he wasn’t going to spend his meager savings on getting a cab to the outskirts just to watch the sky.

It’s part of the entertainment, now, though; now that there’s no TV or video games, unless you’re in Alexandria and you’ve put yourself on the list.

(“We need to establish rules,” Rick had said, pinning the list of names to the notice board in the church, “for who gets to use what when.”

“Sure, dad,” Carl had said, back, and crossed out all the names before writing his own and Judith’s and Michonne’s in blocky letters, “whatever you say.”)

Watching the sky, stars bright against the dark. “It’s nice. Pretty.”

Daryl curls closer on the roof of the truck, skin cool now that night’s fallen in earnest. He looks softer, shrouded in moonlight. All rounded nose and soft cheeks and a jaw Paul wants to nip at.

“Carl taught Judy about the stars,” Daryl says, voice low and sweet, “spent hours talkin’ with her about it. She loves it. Makes shapes in ‘em.”

“Who taught Carl? Rick?”

It seems unlikely. Rick’s a great leader, but he’s also a fucking dumbass.

Even Carl says so. (Hell, Michonne admits it, but there’s always a fond grin on her face with it).

“Nah,” Daryl snorts, “guy can’t tell a star from the fucking moon, man. I did. In that winter after Maggie’s farm fell; tried to teach everyone, but Carl liked it best.”

“You’d be a good dad,” Paul says, and Daryl makes a sound that’s almost a whimper. “Really. You would.”

“Fuck off, Rovia.”

Paul tilts Daryl’s face towards him, kisses his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, his nose. His mouth, deep and adoring. 

“I do,” Paul tells him, “you know that?”

“Yeah,” Daryl mumbles, one hand stroking over Paul’s cheek, “you, too.”

**__________**

Road trips aren’t great.

Like, okay, so they’re fun, and now there’s the added benefit of Daryl at his back, but there’s a lot of siphoning gas from stalled cars, and moving them out of the way. Taking breaks to kill something properly.

“I hate this,” Paul says, wiping his beard off. His whole mouth tastes like gasoline. “I know we have to do it? But I wish I was dead.”

“I know,” Daryl sighs, rooting through the cars they’ve pushed aside to check for anything useful, “found some gum?”

“I would die for you.” Paul snatches the gum out of his hand, unwraps it, shoves it in his mouth. 

It’s still minty, but so stale it makes him gag a little. Daryl smirks at him.

“Haven’t you eaten worse?”

“I’ve eaten ass better than this,” Paul tells him, and nudges at his side when he immediately goes pink, “joking. Sorta.”

“You’ve -.”

Daryl looks weirdly flustered, for a guy who begged to come with Paul’s cock in his mouth two days ago. 

“Yeah,” Paul starts, glances around. The only walker around is about a hundred yards away, stuck under the wheel of a Chevy, “why, you haven’t?”

“Didn’t, uh. Knew it was a thing, but…”

Daryl scratches at his wrist, the light marks there. 

“It’s good. Loads of nerve endings. Really sloppy, you know? I like that about it.”

Daryl looks ready to spontaneously combust, so Paul pops a bubble in his face just to see him roll his eyes.

“You had it-?”

“Oh! Oh, no. I like to give, you know? I don’t mind receiving, but I like making people feel good.” Paul says, and then, because Daryl’s eyes are darting left to right like he’s having a seizure, “I won’t do anything with you that you don’t want to do. No matter what. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees, sighing, “sort of wanted it, before, y’know? Rick, and the prison, maybe, but…”

“But there’s no real opportunity, yeah?” Paul agrees, and takes Daryl’s hand, tugs him to the truck to start pumping gas into it.

They’d sputtered to a stop an hour ago, rolling into Braddock Heights with a literal bang.

Daryl had groaned so loud Paul had flinched.

“Once we get back,” Paul says, hooking the gas pipe into his belt-loops, “I’ll eat you out. If you still want.”

Daryl shudders, head-to-toe, all trembling limbs and flushed face. He’s already getting hard, which is. Wow. Okay.

“Yeah,” Daryl mutters, leans closer and kisses Paul’s shoulder, “ _please_.”

Paul might fucking die before they get home.

But, by Christ. Daryl would be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr is gaydaryl, twitter is gaycrossbow! if you wanna talk about how fucking. good . daryl n paul are im always available !!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Braddock Heights was probably beautiful, before the world turned to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD... here it is!!! the end!!! i might write more for this 'verse at some point, but for right now this is IT. i am DONE. finished! i love these fucking idiots
> 
> warnings for this chapter:
> 
> -forced outing (unintentional, not out of malevolence, but regardless)  
> -vomit (daryl's got anxiety, baby!)  
> -talk about abuse and death

Braddock Heights was probably beautiful, before the world turned to shit.

It’s abandoned, now; cars with doors hanging off in the middle of roads, grass dead and knee-high in front lawns that used to be cared for.

A lot of the houses have been looted already, probably by other Hilltop scouts; there’s a fair amount of rubbed away white chalk on closed doors, so they decide to skip them. 

Even if they aren’t looted, doors being marked with anything these days means a risk upon opening.

“D’you think it’s worth going in there?” Paul asks, legs crossed on the truck’s hood, hair pulled up out of his eyes with a bright pink ribbon he’d found in one of the unmarked houses.

“The rehabilitation centre? Might be somethin’ worth takin’. Could be a lot of dead, though.”

Daryl steals one of Paul’s coveted twizzlers, bites down, keeps it clenched between his teeth as they look around the neighbourhood.

Clear, like it has been since last night, since Paul had vomited after accidentally downing gasoline and Daryl had hid a laugh in his hand.

“We could,” Paul says, pointing to the roof, “climb up there, you know. Make a fuckton of noise on the roof, maybe smash a window to try and bring them out. Just to see.”

Daryl shrugs. “You think the roof’ll hold?”

Paul looks him up and down, shrugs right back. “If it doesn’t, the worst that happens is we fall through. There’s probably a lot of physical therapy equipment in there; might be helpful with Glenn and his leg, a couple other people from the Kingdom.”

Daryl hums. “Smash the windows first, I go left, you go right. Meet in the middle to do a check?”

“Sounds fine to me,” Paul says, and then, puckering up his lips, “a kiss?”

Daryl snorts, kisses him even though he knows it’s a cover for Paul stealing back the candy.

Paul saunters off, gun swinging on his fingers, bright red stick of stale sugar between his teeth, and Daryl watches his ass with something like longing.

_Hate to see you leave, love to watch you go._

Daryl starts over to the left of the plot, gives the signal to start fucking the place up, and knocks a couple times on his first window. No use drawing out too many dead and letting them out through a smashed window, if there are any.

He waits a couple minutes, but the room stays silent, so he swings his crossbow ‘round and busts the window with one rough knock.

Peers in to listen for any of the familiar growl of the shambling dead, but it’s silent still.

He shrugs, moves around the back to repeat the process.

By the time Paul meets up with him, lips stained red and grin on his face, there’s only been three walkers with the ability to get to the windows. Doesn’t necessarily mean there aren’t more; if they were older or weak before they died, they might still be stuck in bed, locked in a bathroom.

Daryl bumps Paul’s extended fist and gets down on one knee, hands clasped.

“Oh,” Paul says, one hand spread across his chest, “isn’t it a little soon for a proposal?”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Givin’ you a boost up. Go on.”

Paul nods, steps on Daryl’s hands surprisingly gently, and launches up, hands clamped on the edge of the awning before hauling himself over with a grunt. Leans down with one hand outstretched, but Daryl shakes his head.

“Shoulder’s fucked, ain’t makin’ that without gettin’ on the truck first. You got this.”

Paul sighs. “We never do anything together anymore.”

He darts around, though, light on his feet until he gets above windows and leans down to smash the glass, tongue poking out between his lips. 

Daryl follows him with his crossbow up, just in case anything goes wrong, but Paul makes his way back to the awning and hops down with no problem, knees bent and dusting his pants off.

“Anythin’ around?”

“One or two,” Paul says, “nothing we can’t take. Bring the truck up to the door, though, just in case. Never know.”

Daryl obeys, and Paul starts working on unlocking the main entrance while he drives closer, reverses in one clean motion.

“That was hot,” Paul tells him, when the front door swings open, “watched it in the glass.”

Daryl snorts. “Fuck off. Get inside.”

“That’s what he said,” Paul chirps, sliding into the building like he owns it.

It smells clean, weirdly; faintly like lemon, even if under all of that there’s the ever present stench of decay.

They go room to room, taking down one, three, eight walkers, before starting back again to properly root through belongings.

Perfume. Cologne. Clippers. A fuckton of prescription pills. Shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, hair masks. 

“Oh, God,” Paul says, and Daryl peers over his shoulder, wrinkles his nose, “Effie, why.”

The dildo’s almost as big as Daryl’s forearm, bright purple and veined, wrapped in a silk sack.

“I know that old people do it,” Paul mutters, throwing socks into his open bag across the room, “I just don’t want to see the evidence.”

“Least you didn’t hear Maggie’s pa jackin’ off,” Daryl says, and Paul’s face goes frighteningly pale, “wanted to leave then and there, man. Couldn’t look him in the eye for three days.”

“I wish I was dead.”

Daryl grins, kisses him on the cheek. “You didn’t have to hear it.”

“I don’t,” Paul tries, shaking his head, “I don’t want to think about this.”

They work in silence for a couple hours, after that, working through room after room, finding more of the same. Stashes of weed in a box under someone’s bed that Paul pockets with a wink. Diaries written by the people who used to live in the centre. 

Some canned food, but nothing exciting; mostly shit they’re swimming in anyway, and they both leave it alone. Botulism from canned tuna doesn’t sound like the best way to die.

A fuckload of wheelchairs and oxygen tanks, some basic medical necessities. Canes and zimmer frames, exercise balls. 

“Hey,” Paul says, rolling back and forth on said exercise ball, “d’you think we have enough space for the wheelchairs?”

Daryl thinks. Maybe. “Think most of ‘em fold down. Just gotta secure ‘em right, they should be good to go.”

“Nice,” Paul says, and then, “is it weird this ball is turning me on just a little?”

Daryl launches a ball at his head, and Paul lands sprawled across the polished floor with a grunt.

A moment of silence, and then, voice distorted through latex, “God, I fucking hate you.”

**__________**

There’s something soothing about driving.

Less so when there’s a blood splatter across the windscreen, one popped out eyeball right in Daryl’s vision, staring right into his soul.

“Why can’t we pick it off?” Daryl asks, and Paul takes another left to try and avoid the herd they’d seen coming their way after climbing up on a roof in Braddock.

A straggler comes out of a side-alley, growling loud, but they’re so far forward and still moving that there’s no threat.

“Listen,” Paul says, rolling down the window with one hand and steering with the other. “You want to climb out and around while we’re still moving, go for it.”

Daryl leans around his back and blows the brains out of a walker that’s just tried to attach itself to the truck. “I know. Jus’ feels wrong. I swear it’s seein’ my goddamn thoughts.”

“Nice shot. Anyway. What thoughts are those, exactly?” Paul asks, as if they hadn’t rubbed up against each other on a balcony of an abandoned house less than a fucking hour ago.

As if there’s not a line of blood and gore over Paul’s arm and face, from where he’d fought through a small pack of the dead.

Daryl looks worse, because he always ends up more soaked in death and rot than anyone else. 

Paul’s insatiable, is the point Daryl’s making here.

They’ve been together for two and a half days, and already Paul treats touching him like a luxury.

“‘Bout your dumbass fallin’ off that balcony ‘cause you came so hard,” Daryl tells him, and Paul makes a wounded noise.

“No fair. You had your hand down my pants. I can’t be responsible for my actions.”

The truck makes a sickening noise as they roll right over a crawling torso, and Daryl sighs. They’re gonna have to stop and drag arms out of the front grate again, soon.

“Least you landed on your feet,” Daryl allows, and Paul smiles at him, sweet and sunny, “like a p-.”

Paul’s hand inches out to smack him gently on the shoulder, and Daryl snickers.

So. Maybe dating Paul ain’t so bad.

**__________**

“They’re ‘armless. Get it?”

“I’m gonna fucking rip your throat out,” Daryl grunts, and Paul pouts as he lowers the arms he’d been holding out in front of him, “gonna eat your jugular, man, I swear to shit.”

“That was _funny_!”

“It wasn’t,” Daryl tells him, and drags out another torso from under the truck, where it’d been caught up in the metal. Pulls the spine out from the back and throws it at Paul, “‘cause you’re so spineless, have a goddamn spare.”

Paul cackles so hard he cries, and Daryl’s heart throbs in his chest, adoration untamed.

**__________**

The drive back to Hilltop is long. Even with stops along the way to hunt through stray houses between towns, it’s hours of nothing and straggling dead and Paul humming to a song only he can hear.

“I’m glad,” Paul says, suddenly, when they’re about fifty miles out of Beltsville, fifty miles from home, “you know. That… I was the person you came out to. I know Rick knew, and everything, obviously, and the others maybe. But… I’m glad you trusted me enough for that.”

Daryl thinks about Paul skidding to a stop as he’d watched Daryl beat Fat Joey into a bloody pulp, about the lack of pity in his eyes when he’d handed over a shirt Daryl still has in his possession.

About him being strong, and kind, and invaluable, the nights they’ve just spent on the road with Paul smiling at him in the moonlight, teeth like beacons.

“Had to be you,” Daryl tells him, tapping at the steering wheel to the tune Paul’s been humming, “you’re, uh. Mean a lot to me, or whatever.”

“Romantic,” Paul says, but there’s a bright grin on his face anyway, cheeks pink where he’s gotten burned by the sun, “you mean a lot to me, too, or whatever.”

Daryl drives in silence for a while, after that, watching the sun glint off torn up asphalt and blood smears. Watches fields pass, small collections of houses that can’t be called villages, they’re that lacking.

“I love you,” Daryl says, blurting, so fucking not smooth it’s ridiculous, and he wants to crash the car just to not feel it. Not to see the say Paul freezes up beside him, hand pausing against the roof where it’s scratching a pattern into the fabric, “prick.”

_Great work, dickhead._

“I,” Paul mumbles, and he slaps at Daryl’s arm, insistent, “stop the car.”

“Shit,” Daryl hisses, but does as he’s asked anyway, “sorry, I didn’t-.”

Paul unbuckles his seatbelt, and in less than a full second Daryl’s got a lapful of him, all strong, loose thighs and hands trembling as they clench at Daryl’s jaw, eyes wide and adoring.

Because that’s what he’d missed, all that time; those looks Paul gives him, they’re not indecipherable. They’re loving. Endlessly.

“I didn’t think,” Paul sighs, takes a shivering breath that makes his chest roll, ducks his head down until his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, “you know, that you wanted to say it. I mean, we did, sort of, but.”

“Sort of ain’t. Good enough. That’s why I told you. I love you. Don’t want you to have to think I don’t, or anythin’. You’re good, for me, an’ I love you.”

“Oh,” Paul whispers, and ducks forward, rests his head right in the crook of Daryl’s neck, “ _oh_.”

Daryl wraps his arms around Paul’s slim back, feels the way he softens right up from a tense, rigid line to something partly liquid, like a cat stretching in the sun.

“When we,” Paul says, voice soft, cracking at the end like he can’t believe his luck, which is just- insane. Daryl’s the lucky one, through and through. “When we get back, did you want -. We can keep it quiet, or whatever, but Maggie knows how I… how I feel, so she’d probably work it out.”

He thinks about those quiet looks Rick gives him, sometimes, the ones filled with questions, when Daryl watches Aaron touch the small of Eric’s back with a trembling hand, when Rick catches him staring after Paul like a lost puppy.

Those looks he’s assigned names to, in his head: the ‘I want you to be as happy as I am’ looks, the ‘I want you to be good’.

“Nah,” Daryl tells him, rubs one hand from the small of Paul’s back to his neck, where his hair hangs loose and soft, freshly brushed, “you ain’t a secret. Ain’t ashamed of it.”

“I love you,” Paul mumbles, and presses a kiss to Daryl’s throat, “I do. So fucking much.”

“Welcome to the goddamn next world,” Daryl says, smirking, and Paul laughs against his collarbone.

They don’t move out of that spot for an hour, and by the time Paul settles back into the passenger seat, his hair’s wild around his head, eyes drooping and pupils dilated, pants hanging open.

Daryl’s never considered himself _cheerful_ before.

**__________**

Getting back to Hilltop after nearly a month away is… weird.

Not a bad weird, but definitely fucking bizarre.

Everyone treats their arrival like a celebration; Carl actually lets a party popper explode from the guard tower, black confetti raining down on them.

It’s the same as always; walls intact and being built up more and more every day, farm flourishing, a huge group of people between the trailers and the blacksmith stall, talking up until Paul and Daryl get out of the truck.

They all pause, after, turning to look at them like they’re a spectacle, like they’ve just transformed into fifty foot balls of slime.

Daryl feels. Uneasy. About it.

Judging by the way Paul flashes him a look, he feels the same way.

The entire family’s there, is another thing, which makes Daryl want to crawl into a hole, never to see the sun again. 

He can just make out Rick’s silhouette by Barrington, bent over and talking quietly to Michonne, where she’s splayed over the grass, hand over her forehead to shield her from the sun. 

Glenn’s by the guard tower, laughing up at Carl as confetti catches in his dark hair.

Maggie’s on the porch, arms crossed, a blot on the horizon but there nonetheless.

“Hey,” Daryl says, patting Kal on the back as he takes the keys for the truck, “leave our shit in the cab. We’ll get it later.”

“Sure thing.” Kal hauls himself up into the truck, starts driving it over to the cellar.

The crowd of people part like the red sea around the vehicle, and Paul uses the distraction to kiss him on the cheek.

“Hey,” Carl says, when he’s hopped down in front of him. His one eye is narrowed and glinting, every bit his dad’s son. “You get what I asked for?”

“Shouldn’t’ve,” Daryl tells him, but gives him the gay skin mags anyway, rolling his eyes when Carl slaps at his hands as Rick comes closer. “Oh, you don’t want your dad knowin’? Maybe you shouldn’t’ve asked, kid.”

“I’ve only got one eye,” Carl tells him, “but I can see well enough to kill you.”

He still hugs him before loping towards Barrington, tucking the mags in his jeans, pulling his shirt over them.

Paul’s busy talking to Glenn, heads pressed together and grinning at each other, Glenn steadied on a bit of wood Earl fashioned into a cane, and Daryl leaves them at it. 

He’ll say hello to Glenn later, when Rick and Michonne are done fawning over him like the world’s worst parents.

They’re the worst apart, but when they’re _together_ it’s nearly fucking unbearable.

Daryl’s happy for them, really, but there’s a limit to how many heart eyes he can stomach.

“I missed you,” Michonne tells him, coming around Rick to squish his cheeks between her gloved hands. Teeth white and straight when she grins. “Isn’t the same without you giving me fleas.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, but hugs her back just as hard when she tugs him in for one. “Fuck’s sake, woman.”

“Brother,” Rick says, and kisses Daryl on the cheek, on exactly the spot Paul did, “Judy’s been asking for you.”

“Huh,” Daryl tries, but he’s stuck on Rick’s eyes, too wide to be truly innocent, about Carl’s reaction when they came home. “Didn’t know you were gonna be here, man.”

Rick shrugs, but then scratches over his old bullet wound through his shirt; anxious. “Knew you were going to be coming back around now. Been here a couple days, helping with the crops.”

“Carl and Enid wanted to see each other,” Michonne adds in, linking her and Rick’s fingers together, eye twitching.

“Right,” Daryl mumbles, but can’t help but think he’s definitely missing something.

When Glenn hits him on the back, right between his shoulder blades, there’s a bounce to his step that’s not at all compounded by his limp.

That’s never a good sign.

**__________**

Maggie’s an asshole.

Daryl’d think that after nearly a month away from home, scavenging for the community, putting their lives at risk, she’d respond with something more than a smirk, but here they are.

Sat in the meeting room, cataloguing all their finds for inventory, Paul’s hand clenched in his, and Maggie looking at them like they’ve just made her year.

“You did well,” she says, eyes wide and faux-innocent, nodding at Kal as he passes through to bring more baby clothes to her, “really well.”

“Thanks,” Paul says, slow, like there’s a trick.

There is. Daryl saw this look before he went on this run, and as good as it’d been (really fucking good, in a variety of ways), there’s nothing good that can come from Maggie’s jaw shaking like that.

“Of course,” she says, sly, “there wasn’t any real need for it.”

Paul freezes by his side. Daryl’s body clenches up.

 _You said we needed ammo_ , he thinks, settling into horrified realisation, _you said we needed to be gone that long. You said there was no other way._

“You what now?”

Paul looks shell shocked, eyes even wider than normal, fingers clenched so tight around Daryl’s his knuckles have gone pale.

Maggie grins, wicked and sharp, eyes glinting.

Daryl’s reminded of those days at the prison, when she’d laugh in his face after he caught her and Glenn going at it, when she’d shove him towards the Woodbury residents for a quick giggle.

“Well,” Maggie says, “we got awful stocked after the war. Splittin’ supplies from the Saviors between all’a us, there was more’n enough going round. And the farming’s goin’ great; Alexandria’s just got their first crops of potatoes, Kingdom’s back up to what it was before the war. And, well. Hilltop’s got everythin’ we need and more.”

Daryl’s stomach pulses, once, twice.

That smile Glenn had given him before sending him off. The way Rick had pulled him into a hug before they left, body trembling with laughter. Carl and Michonne smirking at him over Rick’s shoulder. Enid keeping him from going into the cellars to check if there were things Maggie hadn’t written down.

Carol’s appearance at the gates in the moments before they’d left, high up on one of the Kingdom’s horses, mouth pursed as she’d called down, “pookie, be safe!”

The way there’d been a ripple of laughter from all of his family where they’d gathered around the truck.

The response from the entire community when they’d come back through the gates. Like they were a blockbuster fuckin’ movie from back before, playing out live in front of them.

_Son of a fucking bitch._

Paul’s stock still next to him. Not even breathing.

Daryl takes a glance at him; pale face, bitten lip, eyebrows tilted down.

He looks confused, annoyed. He wasn’t in on it, of that much Daryl’s sure.

“So what the fuck was…? Mags?”

Maggie leans forward, hands clasped together, smile spreading until it reaches her eyes and spreads light all over her face, bright and ecstatic. “I believe Enid called it matchmaking.”

 _Three weeks run,_ Daryl thinks, suddenly, stomach twisting, _three fucking weeks. Not in the rules we normally make. Too much hassle, after the war, that’s what Rick had said._

And Daryl hadn’t put up too big of a fight, because if it all came down to it, he’d rather spend three weeks alone with Paul Rovia than anyone else.

Everyone had known. _Everyone_. 

Maggie, and Rick, and Glenn. Michonne, Carl. Enid. Kal. Carol. Every single member of his family, all of the people of Hilltop - they know. They’d known, know now, will know forever.

They know he’s gay, and they’ve known for a while, and they’ve known enough to arrange an unnecessary run just in the hopes he and Paul would get together.

Everyone knew Daryl was in love with Jesus fucking Rovia, and Daryl had just - accepted the long-term leave like it was nothing.

He’s dealt with so much bullshit in his life; his pa, Merle, the men who abused and used him years after his pa died. Crook landlords and bailiffs at his door. The turn, losing all those he loved one by one.

And yet. He’s never been outed before. And, sure, most of his family knew, and it weren’t like he was gonna hide he and Paul’s _thing_ when they got back, not now and not ever.

But the choice being pulled out from under him, being used as entertainment…

He trusted them. He loved them, loves them, always will, but the nausea that goes right to his stomach means he has to go, right now, before he sinks back into who he used to be; those flying fists and slurs that hit just as hard.

Daryl shoves the chair back, stares down at Maggie, and has to hold back the want to vomit.

“I’ll,” Daryl mutters, but leaves before Paul can even get out of his chair. Can’t stay in this room one more minute, being smirked at by Maggie, Paul just as shocked at his side.

The last thing he sees, before the door swings back, is the stricken look on Maggie’s face, and the shelved anger on Paul’s.

**__________**

He’s retching into the bushes behind Barrington when Glenn finds him, smile dimming almost immediately.

“Daryl?” He asks, careful, and Daryl only doesn’t knock him out because Maggie’d snipe him.

“What.” 

His voice is back to the way it was at the quarry, before the farm; monotone, slack, angry and punctuated with horror.

 _You knew_ , he thinks, staring at Glenn’s hands wrapped around his cane, gnawing on his lip, _you fucking knew_.

“Are you okay?” He winces, then, looks like the twenty-something delivery boy he’d been when they’d met. “Stupid question. Sorry. What’s, uh. What’s wrong?”

“Like you don’t know,” Daryl spits, “you goddamn sanctimonious asshole, you absolute piece of shit.”

Glenn freezes, eyes wide, mouth falling open. “What?”

“You knew,” Daryl says, and stares at the vomit in the grass, thinks about the time three weeks ago when he’d done the same thing, after coming out to Paul. “You goddamn knew.”

“Knew what?” Glenn looks desperate, confused, cocking his head side to side like a cocker goddamn spaniel, “Daryl, c’mon.”

“I’m gay,” Daryl says, although it feels like expelling venom, “you knew I was gay, right? That’s why you an’ Maggie and goddamn everyone saw us off? ‘Cause it’s such a fuckin’ joke to all of y’all, the big bad redneck bein’ gay and in love with a guy too good for him. ‘Cause it’s easy entertainment to all’a you, watchin’ me be a fuckin’ idiot.”

Glenn looks horrified, swallowing rapidly, eyes wet with unshed tears. His shoulders are hunched in, nails clawing at the sheen on the cane. 

“We didn’t,” Glenn says, voice low, tries to step closer but stops when Daryl bares his teeth, “Daryl, this wasn’t some… conspiracy, okay? Maggie and Enid, sure, they thought you and Jesus would be a good match together, they knew you two liked each other, and I knew, yeah, that you’re gay, but it wasn’t a joke. We want you to be happy, man, that’s all. I’ve got Maggie, Rick’s got Michonne, Carol’s got Ezekiel, we wanted the same for you.”

“So y’thought,” Daryl tries, and all he can taste is bile, “that puttin’ us on a run together, with our limited fuckin’ supplies, it’d be a good idea? What if one of us died, huh? What if both of us did? Is matchmaking worth all that shit? Y’know we got overrun in a Walmart? Thought Paul was dead. I was sure of it, almost gave up, ‘fore he rolled out from some shelves and took the walkers down.”

He thinks about the blood on the floors of that Walmart, about the fact he’d had to hold Paul’s hair back while he screamed into the water of that pool, about the glazed look to his eyes when Daryl mentioned it.

About the fact Daryl had almost let go of every single survival instinct he had, all for a ninja prick he’s been in love with for months, because without him life ain’t worth it.

Glenn swallows, hard, and there’s tears on his face, now, too. Cries easier, these days, after Negan. 

They all do.

“We didn’t,” Glenn says, voice broken, “Daryl, it wasn’t about that. If it wasn’t you two, we wouldn’t have done it. You both mean so much to our communities, you’re family, and we did the maths for the gas and everything else. I’m sorry. I really am. And if it’s any consolation, we didn’t know you didn’t want people to know you’re gay. It was wrong to make assumptions like that.”

“Not ashamed of bein’ gay, you dickhead,” Daryl growls, but he steps closer to Glenn anyway. Steel balls, Glenn’s got, because he doesn’t for a moment step back or falter, “don’t care if y’all know. Want a choice in it, s’all. An’ makin’ a joke of it all, like some big prank? Ain’t exactly the way to show you’re accepting.”

“I know,” Glenn says, lip bitten between his teeth, “I’ll tell Maggie that, too. I’m sure Jesus has, anyway, but… We really didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Daryl takes a breath, grabs for Glenn’s water bottle and takes a heavy gulp from it. “I know.”

“We good?” Glenn asks, hopeful.

Daryl eyes his extended hand, scarred and trembling with feeling.

He takes it. “We’re good. Jus’... leave us alone a while, alright? Tell people that.”

Glenn nods, pats him on the shoulder, and it’s not okay, not by a long shot.

But it’s not the way he felt in Maggie’s office, like the walls were closing in on him and his stomach was throwing a fucking revolt.

**__________**

Paul’s pacing when Daryl opens the door to the trailer. Stops dead between the fiction stack and the biography pile.

His hands are clasped together, hair a mess where he’s clearly been running his fingers through it, and Daryl aches with love for him.

“Daryl,” Paul says, and shakes his head, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Daryl launches himself at him, tugs Paul close to his chest and _holds_.

He smells like vomit and grass, but Paul smells beautiful, perfect, and he sinks into Daryl’s hug like a rock into water.

“S’okay,” Daryl mumbles, even though it isn’t, because he’s long decided he’ll lie for Paul Rovia time after time, “s’okay. Talked to Glenn. They’re gonna leave us be, for a while.”

“Yeah?” Paul asks, and at Daryl’s nod, “I cussed Maggie out. I felt horrible, after, because she’s family, she’s my best friend, and-. But she hurt you, and she outed you against your will, and it’s so fucked to do that.”

“I know,” Daryl tells him.

He’d seen Maggie on the way to the trailer, eyes rimmed with tears and lip trembling like she was seconds from crying again, and he’d patted her shoulder, nodded at her. It’d made her shoulders loosen, and her cracked “ _I’m so sorry_. I didn’t think.” made his own body lose its tension.

He’d assumed Paul had said something; the way he’d looked brimming with rage when Daryl had left, it’d been a pretty obvious assumption to make.

“She gets it,” he says, because Paul needs to know that, “she understands. She’s not angry at you. Or me. I talked to her, a little. An’ Glenn. He’ll tell her more. She’s still your friend, even if you yelled at her.”

“I know,” Paul mumbles, sounding small and pathetic, tucked under Daryl’s chin, “I know that. Just… Sometimes, if I get angry, people just leave, and I can’t deal with that.”

Daryl tilts his chin up, kisses Paul’s forehead. “Ain’t gonna leave you if you get angry. Neither’s she. She dealt with me when I had a fuckin’ arrow impaled in me. This is nothing.”

“Okay,” Paul says, and leans up on his tiptoes to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Daryl’s mouth, “ugh. You should brush your teeth before we make out.”

“Is that what we’re doing now?”

“Yeah,” Paul tells him, nudges him towards the bathroom, “be good, go on.”

“Fine. Only ‘cause you’re a goddamn mess right now.”

“You stink of vomit!”

Daryl grins around a mouthful of foam, and the lingering annoyance that’d settled into his chest leaves like it was never there.

**__________**

Daryl likes the roof of Barrington; the sloping curve of it, the way it provides reassurance and the ability to look for miles around.

Likes sitting with legs crossed under it, watching the Hilltop flourishing below, the slow staggering trails of the dead coming to the walls, beckoned by the sound of metal being transformed into weaponry.

He’s always liked high places, the swoop of fear and anxiety, the urge to jump.

“L’appel du vide,” Paul tells him, settling close at Daryl’s side, “the call of the void. The want to self sabotage. That’s why people like heights. Wanting to jump.”

Daryl’s abruptly reminded of the Sanctuary’s walls crumbling in, the readiness with which he’d faced death, the relief at the thought of it. 

He doesn’t want to die. But. Sometimes. Sometimes, there’s moments when he forgets that. That he took years learning not to hate himself violently and desperately after his childhood.

That people need him, now. That he has people who care.

Daryl grabs for Paul’s hand, and Paul links their fingers with a grin.

“You spoke to Mags yet?”

After their… unscheduled fuck-fest (Paul named it, Daryl cringed), Paul had walked around the trailer for a while, pants slung low, shirt unbuttoned, muttering about making it up to Maggie, making sure it was all good.

Paul scrunches his nose, settles his chin on his knees. “Yeah. She’s fine, you know. Like you said. She’s upset about upsetting you, more than anything, but Glenn’s talked to her and Rick and everybody. It’s okay.”

“It’ll be alright,” Daryl tells him, rubbing over Paul’s wrist with his thumb, “she gets it. Rick kept givin’ me looks when I came up here, like he wanted to get on his knees.”

Paul raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if an open relationship is on the cards for this moment, Mister Dixon.”

Daryl snorts, leans into his shoulder and breathes in. Peppermint and musk, the smell of sex on Paul’s throat. 

There’s a mark on his collarbone, Daryl knows, that he’d see if he pulled Paul’s shirt down with his finger. Could trace the shape of his teeth implanted in Paul’s smooth skin.

His stomach heats, and he thinks about Little Asskicker and that time she shit herself so hard it reached her neck.

Carl had laughed until he’d cried.

“You,” Daryl hums, thinking, “you didn’t wanna keep this secret, right? I didn’t ask.”

Paul shrugs, hair falling into his face with the movement. His cheeks are lightly freckled, flushed pink from the sun, eyes clear and bright and so fucking blue it hurts to look at. “No. I don’t mind, either way. I’ve been with people when they were in the closet, before, and it doesn’t bother me. Coming out’s hell, even now, I wouldn’t have held it against you if you wanted to keep it secret. I know you’re not ashamed. It’s just difficult, changing people’s perceptions of you.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees, relieved, “like it, you know, bein’ gay, haven’t had an issue with it since I was thirteen and gettin’ the shit beaten out of me on the regular. Just… Wanted to do it at my own pace.”

“I know. I’m sorry they took that choice from you. They didn’t mean to, but it sucks anyway.”

“Yeah,” Daryl repeats, and brings Paul’s hand up to his mouth to press soft kisses to the back of his wrist. Paul’s ears go pink, “worth it.”

“Mhm,” Paul says, voice strangled, “definitely worth it.”

They watch the people below; Enid ferrying along a pig on a bright pink leash, much to Judith’s childish amusement, squealing loud enough to be heard from even this far up. Earl working on a new set of spears, some bolts Daryl had requested and paid for with a cache of shell casings.

“You know we’ve been dating for like… three days, right?” Paul asks, smile on his mouth. “Tara’s gonna be making U-Haul jokes for fucking _months_.”

Daryl grins. “We got together in a goddamn U-Haul.”

Paul sighs, leaning back and thumping the roof with heavy boots, “oh, _God_! I just want to be in one normal relationship _once_ in my life, please.”

Daryl lays back besides him, leaning all his weight on his elbows and smirking at the disgruntled look on Paul’s face. “We’re gay, ain’t ever gonna be the societal norm, man.”

“The dead are _walking_ and I sucked my boyfriend’s dick in a U-Haul.”

Daryl buries his laugh in Paul’s stomach, back shaking, and after a moment Paul joins him, hands carding through Daryl’s hair and chest bouncing with his hysterical giggles.

“Wait,” Paul says, “boyfriend feels juvenile.”

“You went down on me in a goddamn U-Haul, that’s… sorta the most juvenile we’re about to get.”

Paul bats at his head with a grumble that absolutely does not go to Daryl’s dick. 

“Still. What’s better? Lover?”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Gay.”

“ _We’re_ gay, Daryl.”

“Eh,” Daryl shrugs, “ain’t about to call you my lover to Rick’s face. He’ll make that face.”

Paul grins. “His ‘no-I’m-not-laughing-face? You’re right. Uhh… Partner?”

“I’m a redneck, not a fuckin’ cowboy.”

“I hate being gay,” Paul says, eyes bright and happy, and Daryl bites at his stomach before settling back at his side, “can’t we just say we’re in a civil union and be done with it?”

“You think we’re civil enough for that? I ate a dog once, and I saw you steal some grandpa’s cologne in Clearfield.”

“Everything we did on that trip was stealing,” Paul says, squinting, “like, for instance, I stole your heart.”

“Y’know what? I worked out a label for us. You’re my ex.”

Paul slaps him, light, on the shoulder.

Daryl laughs so hard he nearly falls off the roof.

**__________**

Rick stares at Daryl.

Daryl stares back.

“You and Jesus,” Rick says, finally, hands on his hips, in full-leader pose, “you’re datin’, now?”

“Yeah.”

They’ve been sitting in stubborn silence for five minutes, up until this point; Rick had cornered him in the cellar and just stared him down. Daryl’d been genuinely worried about his health.

Apparently he needs to worry about his own, since he’s about to have a stroke.

“Right,” Rick nods, jaw set, “he treatin’ you good?”

Daryl stares at the roof of the cellar and begs for it to cave in on top of them. “Mhm.”

“Good. That’s good.” He coughs, rubs a hand over his beard, “and you’re bein’ safe?”

 _Attack us,_ Daryl thinks, desperate, _some rogue Saviors, come on, a fucking herd, something. Give me goddamn something, here._

“Man,” Daryl sighs, hand full of turnips. He’s never going to be able to eat them again. They’ll always remind him of this horrific moment. “I’ve had your cock inside me, can you not act like a dad right now?”

Rick flushes so hard it’s visible even here, underground, where the only light comes from the open door up the steps. “Right. Fuck. Sorry. I’m just -. I’m happy for you, Daryl. You deserve something good. And if he ever hurts you, we’ve all got your back.”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Sure thing, Grimes. Can I go give these to the cooks, now? Done with being interrogated.”

“Wait,” Rick says, holds a hand out to catch Daryl’s chest, “just. You’re good, right? Talked with Glenn.”

“Think I remember tellin’ him to tell all’a y’all to leave us alone,” Daryl notes, “but you’re still bein’ your normal dumbass self.”

Rick scoffs. “Please. Don’t apply to me, and you know it. We’ve fucked, I know you’re gay. I’m sorry all that happened, though, Daryl. None of us meant to.”

“It’s good,” Daryl tells him, staring at the turnips in his possession, “we’re good, man.”

“Okay.” Rick takes a breath, nods, and breaks into one of those dazzling grins that used to get Daryl on his knees in thirty seconds flat, and now just make him feel at home, “I’m glad. Happy for you.”

“Happy for me, too.”

**__________**

Daryl’s never really been in a relationship before.

Not one that counts, anyway; sleeping with Rick had been easy, fun, but never anything truly serious, even if the pit of his gut ached for more on his worst nights. The few times he hooked up with Martinez had been good, too, but nothing more than a release.

The closest thing he’s ever had to a relationship of any kind is the brotherhood he has with Rick, the familial love he has for all of the people he keeps close.

Paul is something new. Brilliant, glorious.

It’s been two months, now, since they got back, and _everyone_ knows.

They’ve all talked to him about it, all made smirking faces at him, like assholes.

It’s awful, even if sometimes it makes his stomach warm when Aaron asks them over for spaghetti, when Rick invites them both for a double date and only spends half the evening grilling Paul.

(Paul had been right, too; Tara did make U-Haul jokes).

He’s never had something worth telling anyone about.

Never had anything that’s made him want to scream at the top of his lungs about how good it is.

And here he is, anyway, embarrassed by the depths of his own feelings, staring at Paul sprawled over the bed, hair a tangled mess on the pillow.

He’s mapped his body, over and over. Stroked over scars and freckles and kissed the backs of knees. Taken hours to take Paul apart in every possible way, and been rewarded with the opposite the same way.

The move into Paul’s bed had been immediate; Paul had cocked his head when Daryl went to set up the couch, like he’s been doing since the end of the war, and that had been it.

It’s good. Waking up next to warmth and safety, Paul always sleep-sweaty and stinking of sex.

Sleeping next to people used to be a necessity. Now it’s a choice, and it’s -. It’s fucking perfect, even when Paul steals the covers and somehow rucks the sheets up until Daryl’s touching the mattress with bare legs and recoiling like a snail into its shell.

“Stop,” Paul grumbles, voice gruff, face buried in the pillow, “dun’lookit me.”

Daryl snorts, strokes through Paul’s hair, starts working out the knots with soft rolling motions he’d learned long before the turn. “Y’drooled all over me.”

“Ugh,” Paul sighs, and shuffles closer, a line of crusted drool somehow halfway up his cheek that he scrubs away with sleep-clumsy hands, “ugh!”

He’s so fucking gorgeous. Face crinkled from the pillow cover, drool all over his face, sleep in his eyes, eyebrows and beard and hair all a goddamn mess, chest marked with various kinds of bruises; he’d been sparring with Enid yesterday, and they’d managed to get a few hits in.

Daryl had pressed hickies over the worst of them until Paul’s legs had trembled from want, and then he’d sucked his cock.

 _Romance is great_ , Paul had groaned, fingers in Daryl’s hair, _I love it._

“How long’ve you been up?” Paul asks, ducking into Daryl’s armpit despite all of his experience telling him not to.

Daryl just grins when he jerks back with a whine, “about an hour.”

“And you were just watching me? You’re a creep!”

“Ain’t,” Daryl says, gesturing to _Gone Girl_ spread over his bare thigh, “only been watchin’ you for five minutes.”

“Oh! How is it? I keep forgetting to ask.”

Paul slides up onto one elbow, drooping forward with his beard resting against Daryl’s shoulder, and Daryl tries not to pull a face at his fucking _awful_ morning breath, and fails.

“S’good,” he tells him, and strokes over Paul’s waist, the tanned line of it, “I like it. Y’think Tara’s got the movie anywhere? Got that projector workin’ in the church, last I heard.”

“Sexy,” Paul says, “guess we could ask around. There’s got to be someone who has it, anyway. And if not… we could go on a run.”

Daryl jerks back. “Ain’t doin’ that.”

Paul grins. “You don’t like my company?”

“Y’company’s fine. Just don’t want everyone makin’ goddamn jokes about fuckin’ in barnhouses for three days again.”

Aaron had a fucking field day when word got around about he and Paul to he and Eric, eyes immediately lighting up. _Did you have sex in a garage? How was it?_

Eric had slapped at him, sweetly, and then asked _did he fuck you in an attic?_ And Daryl had lost the will to live.

“I mean,” Paul says, shrugging, but he’s still so sleep-weak he half falls in the process, scrunching up his nose like a wronged kitten when he hits the mattress, “ow. Technically, we did.”

Technically, they’ve fucked in the kitchens of Barrington. _Technically_ , they’ve fucked in Rick’s attic. _Technically_ , they’ve done a lot of things Daryl’s not exactly chomping at the bit to tell everyone about.

Daryl stares at Paul, at the mark where the drool had been a couple of minutes ago, the sunlight streaming through the knots in his blond hair, the mess his beard becomes in the night. Suddenly aches, all over, with adoration and want and everything in between.

He’s been in love with Paul for ages, long before they got together. But sometimes, on slow mornings like this, Paul’s legs curled around his until he’s not sure where he begins and Paul ends, he gets strangled with the need of it. Like something’s clawing his throat open, and all that falls out from between his teeth is sunlight.

“I love you,” he says, because he says it regularly, so embarrassingly often, but, “really.”

“Aw.” Paul grins, leans in to kiss him and then wrinkles his nose. “Morning breath.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees, leaning back from him, “brush your teeth. Love you some more later.”

Paul hops out of bed, stretches until his back pops, and then does finger guns at Daryl before moving out of the room, darting between stacks of books like it’s a maze.

“You owe me a blowjob!” Daryl calls, when the tap starts running.

“Chet ugh fem,” Paul mumbles, mouthful of foam, before he gobs it right back up in the sink, peers back out at him, “that was ‘what a shame’, by the way. In case you didn’t catch it.”

“Mhm.”

“Love you, too,” Paul says, wiping his mouth off on one of those rainbow towels he’d found on the run, “a lot.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, stomach warm and tight and heart so fucking big in his chest, “alright.”

No. He doesn’t hate Paul. Not even a little. Not even at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lvoed writing this fic SO much, 100%. got another thing in the works right now, too, so make sure to watch out for that!!
> 
> thanks for reading and commenting and givin kudos; means the Gotdamn world to me, legitimately, i'm so lucky to have all'a y'all
> 
> gaydaryl on tumblr, transrickgrimes on twitter!
> 
>  
> 
> **if you happened to enjoy this fic, please consider donating to my[ko-fi!](https://ko-fi.com/gaydaryl)**

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr's [here](http://gaydaryl.tumblr.com/) if you wanna talk about hopelessly pining daryl, and i love comments/kudos. i'm also on twitter at gaycrossbow!


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